I am very happy with this chapter. I feel like that's a dangerous thing to admit-suddenly there are so many more ways someone can tear you apart-but I had fun writing it. My work has been canceled due to COVID-19, so the upside is I have a lot of time to spend on my writing. Anyways, hope you're all doing well. Stay safe!

The waiter had brought him a refill.

Robin smiled. A drink was a prop for the evening, the liquid amber glimmering through the cut crystal tumbler, an extension of the charm Robin was supposed to have—a capsule of the elements—the champagne, the sherry, the mahogany counters and dim décor, the golden jazz floating through a ballroom of people and out into a night of pillared hallways and china vases, cascading orchids in crisp whites and purples—and somewhere beyond the stretch of lush carpet was an exit Robin wouldn't be using, because he'd promised, and this was just intermission—prelude to the second act, if you will—and he was not heading out for a less-than-stellar burger at Astro-Phil's or hitting up the aquarium for their special, late-night exhibit on the Marianas Trench—Pulse of the Ocean: Brought to you by our dedicated partners at the Granrojo Marine Research Institute—because he'd promised.

How many had that been so far?

A promise a day keeps the doctor away.

Robin swallowed the last of his drink, the heat unfolding happy tendrils in his head, smoothing out the edge where his worries always caught, the ridge of complicated promises he'd made. Cross my heart and hope to die, Duncan. I'll do better. Really. I'll try. And he would. Today and tomorrow and the next day until all the hours ran together, gathering in slow procession like a disjointed caravan rumbling through the fog.

"Can I get another one of these?" Robin dangled his glass at the waiter, a sloppy urgency to the gesture.

"Of course." The waiter came over to his alcove, obliging—a miserly dash of scotch at the bottom of the glass. "Anything else, sir?"

"A Manhattan." Robin downed the sad little dram and set the glass back on the counter, feeling warm, woozy in the best possible sense. "In honor of the New World, as my uncle would say."

The waiter wavered. "I meant something else, sir." He glanced over his shoulder. "Perhaps an hors d'oeuvre to go with your choice of spirits. Or a glass of water, maybe?"

"I'm fine."

"We have a large selection of entrees to choose from."

"I don't think so."

The waiter was a taut smile, another stiff glance over his shoulder. "Manhattan it is, sir." The smile was even tighter. "An excellent choice."

"Extra cherries."

"Coming right up."

And it did, the Manhattan delivered in the classic coupe glass of softly rounded edges—a cold, clear pool of rosy vermouth and rye whisky, a dash of bitters—and over the glassy surface hung suspended three blood-red cherries, their rich, fleshy hearts struck through with a wooden cocktail pick—the ensemble performance.

"I really am fine, you know," said Robin as the glass was delivered to him, stopping the waiter from leaving.

"Yes, you…" the waiter hesitated politely, "you just said."

"I mean, it's—it's all part of the plan." Robin lifted his glass. "The Schedule remains, all-hallowed, all-knowing."

"I'm sure it does, sir."

"Because I know I need to get back out there and show 'em what I got. Give it the good ol' college try. Until midnight at least. Plenty of time to booze and schmooze before my carriage turns back into a pumpkin. Or at least, that's what Duncan would say, anyway."

"Who, sir?"

"Duncan. L'officier d'ordonnance. The faithful aide-de-camp lurking around here somewhere."

"Are you sure there isn't anything else I can do for you, sir?"

God, the hors d'oeuvres. He wasn't going to let this go, was he? "Surprise me."

"What?"

"The menu. Go wherever your little heart desires."

"Oh. Ah, I didn't mean…" the waiter trailed off, then tried again. "We do have a very popular liver pâté."

"Well, now you've ruined the surprise, haven't you?" Robin took a deep, thirsty swallow of his Manhattan, and it was very good. "This is very good," he said, spilling some on his hand with the gesture.

"Thank you, sir. We're trying out a new vermouth. Noilly Prat."

"French?"

"Yes, sir."

"Vermouth," Robin repeated, the word lingering on his tongue, and the story came floating out of the warm darkness, the odd tidbit wrapped up in so many layers of woolly memory, unwrapped now, new as ever, as if it hadn't been over a decade since Robin had last been standing in the smoking room with the heavy oxblood Chesterfields and the boar's head above the mantle, its dull gaze presiding over the family affairs ever since great-uncle Piers shot it in Sulawesi sixty years ago. 'A Manhattan is two parts rye whisky and one part vermouth,' Uncle Edwin had said, carefully measuring out the drink for himself from the brass drink cart. 'You see, Robin, vermouth is the French pronunciation of the German wormwood—'wermut', if you will—a clear bastardization of the form—and this,' he had held up his glass, the ice cubes clinking gently against the sides, 'is the product of vermouth reaching the shores of your country in the latter half of the nineteenth century. The refined European fraternizing with the common American rustic.' His uncle's elastic smile, the thin lips peeling back over narrow teeth. 'The irony isn't lost on us, is it, boy?'

"You know," Robin addressed the waiter again, feeling a small, mean-spirited pleasure at making him stay and listen, "it wasn't a Manhattan, per say, but I did once enjoy an exceedingly rare vintage of single malt whisky, gifted to some ancestral Creighton-Ward at some pivotal point in history—I forget which one." A priceless family heirloom squandered on the boy who couldn't hold his liquor. Robin imagined someone must have been sent to deal with the mess in the fountain. The idea of Parker in a pair of waders and a skimming net wasn't half bad. "I thought I might head out in a bit."

"Will you, sir?"

"I hear there's a rave in the south garden." That was blatantly ridiculous, and Robin knew it, but he said it anyway, the instinct bubbling back to the surface, a viscous gurgle from the old infection of being awful.

"You must mean the restaurant, sir."

"Restaurant?" Robin feigned ignorance.

"The Etoile, sir."

"French?"

"Yes, that one too, sir."

"So, no rave then?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Pity." Robin took another luxurious sip of his drink. "I brought my glow paints and everything."

The waiter should have sensed by now the nonsensical bent to this conversation, like a joke he wasn't in on, and Robin was making him stand there for no reason at all, just like all the other times in all the other hotels, with friends who thought it would be funny to make the service staff wait; except there wasn't an audience now, no peanut gallery to laugh along—it was only him and the nameless waiter—a big man with sloping shoulders and curly, thinning hair, the brass buttons of his uniform straining to hold together over his stomach. No name tag though, and maybe that was one of those LA quirks, where they wanted you to ask—make things more personal—or come to think of it, maybe just the opposite: to keep things clean, minimal, less messy: like the auto-bars down on the corner with their rows of cubicles and AI dispensing machines—doing what conveyor belts had once done for sushi, excising the human element down to nothing—drinks without judgments: enough heat to fill the hole behind the hole, and you could've gone there, Robin; could have traded a few words with the other patrons before he slid into his chair, saying something pointless and average and everyday enough to fill a predetermined gap of time—a place where 'How about them Lakers?' was greeting and didn't actually mean anyone was interested in Robin's feelings on the game, which was good because he didn't have any, and he preferred cricket anyway in the mildly disconnected sense, though he'd have to be blind and deaf not to know Eddleman was opener this season and had scored three centuries already.

Robin finished his drink and considered it wasn't any worse than the other little gods he enjoyed—the thousand cups of coffee that made up his day, the little feet of caffeine powering through his veins in military step—the dance of the little white pills he swallowed to cure the wraparound headaches of the mid-afternoon—O! sainted aspirin for early mornings when rolling out of bed was climbing out of a bog, the night before still beating a war drum behind his eyes. 'Aspirin,' he wanted to say now out loud for someone to hear, 'and never anything stronger.' Even when something stronger might have helped. But instead he said, "Not a rave." The repetition seemed pleasantly idiotic to him. Should he say something to counterbalance? "If music be the food of love, play on."

No, that wasn't it.

"Sir?"

"I'm fine." Better than before, at least, the wine and the scotch and the vermouth and the rye whisky and God knows what else he'd had during the endless rounds of toasts were all slowing things down nicely, a merciful blunting of anything that mattered, lapping like waves on the beach at the words he'd scrawled in the sand—Look, Dad! I wrote my name!

He could go back to the ball now.

Should go back, Robin.

Your destiny awaits.

He pushed himself up, standing a bit unevenly and feeling for his wallet. Where had he put it? He numbly pulled out a few bills without counting, and folded them in half, then half again, and it made sense now in this moment, the way America hadn't lost its love for trinkets—this anachronistic whim of paper money still hanging about from the last century—they had done it for him—for Robin Francis Locke—so he could be standing here, expertly sliding a small, neatly-folded fortune into a man's pocket to buy his silence.

Robin squinted at the man's front left side, at the crease of what seemed to be a pocket—and it occurred to him then it might be decorative, in the way a real pocket would ruin the lines of the uniform. He held out the money, remembering the butler at that nice ski hotel in Lech—what was it called? Almhof something?—that charming royal suite with a view and manservant who'd prepped his snowboard under the optimistic delusion his guest would actually be hitting the slopes—an opulent setting, the perfect stage for Robin to 'clear his head' like he'd said he would, had promised he would, because this time he'd actually do it and this time he'd appreciate the goddamn alpine beauty without reaching for the goddamn snuff box at the bottom of his bag.

"Excellent service," Robin pressed the money into the waiter's hand." And this is nice." A gesture at something. "Love what you've done with the place."

The waiter barely looked at the money. "You're leaving, sir?"

Was that relief?

"Alas, parting is such sweet sorrow," prosaically, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep." And miles to go before you sleep, Robin—Duncan seemed to be right there, discreetly tapping his watch to remind him of the time, and Robin wanted to laugh. The absurdity of Robert Frost being told to hurry up. Nevermind the woods, Rob. Hang the poetry. We've got people to see, Tracys to avoid. Because, unambiguously, the best place to avoid the Tracys was here, in the heart of their kingdom. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Duncans of all ages! Hurry, hurry, hurry! Step right up and see the magical, mystical man—behold the glorious King Jeffrey on his throne! Witness his table, his sons—the Knights Gallant—Lord Scott of Tracy, Sir John of Harvard! "What did you say your name was?"

He hadn't. "Bonsignore."

"'Good sir.'"

"Yes."

"Charming."

"Thank you, sir. My grandmother was Italian."

"That's more than I've ever wanted to know."

Goodbye, goodbye.

Robin left the waiter behind, wafting through the crowd like sweet perfume, a good feeling, that honeyed je ne sais quoi the others couldn't quite place. The floor was rolling pleasantly beneath him—a private yacht, a party in the Riviera—the gentle clucking of waters against his keel. He could use another drink, just a little splash of fortitude in his glass, a last shove to set him drifting into the shimmering expanse.

"Champagne, sir?"

One of Bonsignore's brethren had appeared, a vision in white, with a silver tray of champagne flutes like the slender stems of crystal flowers.

"Merci beaucoup," Robin graciously accepted. The flute fitted perfectly into his hand, the cool curve of glass a familiar handshake. "Belle journée, n'est-ce pas?" he added to the departing waiter. Everything was going to be all right. He'd made a friend, hadn't he? Bonsignore. What-a-guy. The good sir to bring him Manhattans and ill-timed offers of pate de foie gras. As good a beginning as he could've wish for, non? Star-crossed, one could say. Duncan would be happy. He'd said to make friends. New friends, Robin—vastly different from the old.

Robin floated out into the crowd, pulled by the current to the balcony doors, wide open now to the veranda, overlooking the gardens. Inevitable, he told himself, like the amassing paper stacks in his office, or the LA morning smog, or the dinner guests meeting up and breaking apart endlessly. The open doors, the scattering of people under the lanterns—the lights had halos, little yellow hats—was it getting late? He couldn't tell. And did it matter? He was measured, urbane, the fireworks sizzling in his chest.

New friends, Robin.

The conviction carried him like a cresting wave.

Be good. Stay safe.

Avoid the Tracys.

But Scott's right over there, Duncan.

Robin nodded in that direction as if Duncan were here to look—Scott, by the stone balustrade, talking to someone, a circle of someones, a little chorus of cigarettes glowing in the evening air, beckoning like stars by which to set one's course—the smoke rising like incense at the foot of the altar—Scott Tracy, accepting the keys to the city, sabering open that ceremonial bottle of bubbly with the mayor. Scott Tracy, that stratospheric bohème; that death-defying flying ace, the Silver Star of everything. The image was a commercial reeling through Robin's head. Choose Tracy Air. We're high flyers. Enjoy our all-inclusive experience from air to chair with Tracy Hotels, premier provider of champagne breakfasts and silk bedroom slippers—a first-class act from LA to NY.

Robin raised a hand. "Dick Tracy."

Was this a good idea?

"What's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?"

Scott looked over, distracted from his conversation, a new frown. "Robin?"

"On se revoit, mon frère," Robin heard himself as if from a distance, muffled, like his head had been packed with cotton, ready to be hung over the mantle with the boar. "We meet again."

"Great."

Unusually terse, thought Robin, tasting the atmosphere like a connoisseur of the human spirit. Dry, with certain peppery undertones. "Together again, Scott—the long-lost flame of our allegiance, rekindled."

Scott flicked his cigarette, the ember dislodging over the side of the veranda, "Go home, Robin. You're drunk."

Someone sniggered.

"I'm fine."

"Sure."

The great Ciceronian dialogue.

"Why would I want to go home? The night is young. The dawn awaits. And we're starting over, aren't we? John's cleared it all up."

"What?"

"We're fine," Robin assured him. "Everything is fine."

"What are you talking about?"

"We have so much in common, us rich kids." Robin was giddy, the bubbles foaming around the lie, clinging, floating. "All our mutual friends. The places we've been, the people we've seen. I went to Eton, he went to Harvard. It all kinda balances out in the grand scheme of things. We talked it over, and so, like, John and I are square, but—"

Scott had stubbed out his cigarette on the balustrade, a grey smudge in the grey light. "You want to run that by me again?"

"Before, at the—the diner?" Robin trailed off, trying to read the tone, a false note trilling, the revelation breaching like a trickle of light through a shuttered window. "He didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

The little beam expanded, a warm thrill at the thought of knowing something Scott Tracy didn't—that Robin had sat across from John, had seen him just now before the party—Robin grinned, hearing the static whine at the back of his head again, a radio tuning in to an old frequency—Welcome back, dear listeners!—the old, petty self remembering when the antidote to feeling awful was feeling worse. "Oh, I thought you told each other everything. My mistake." An exaggerated shrug. "You know, you two don't look much alike. Except for the resumes, of course. That Ivy League lockstep. Your old man's gotta be proud. Speaking of—that's a stroke of genius, no? Five sons to bring out for the cameras. Better than just having one."

Scott took one step across the great schism and snagged him by one lapel, smoothly, like he was picking lint off the fabric. "Robin, I'm going to need you to shut up and answer the question."

"That's oxymoronic," said Robin, deliberately taking a sip of his champagne, tilting his head up to look at him, "or just moronic." He felt distantly he should be afraid. Scott was very tall, Robin recalled now, and he had that air to him—the Montcroix Syndrome: another Fitzwilliam in the long line of people who liked to get their way. "Eighteen months isn't bad. Middling performance, I'd say. I've seen worse."

Scott's grip tightened on his lapel. "Shit."

"But like I said, we're square. It's all done."

"You just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"Come again?"

"Did you bring him in?"

"John?"

"No, not John, dipshit. Your skeevy little friend from the press. Is that how he got through security?"

Friend? Robin frowned. God, he was drunk. Was that supposed to make sense? "Bonsignore?"

"Is that his name?"

"But we were just talking."

"What did you tell him?" Scott pushed him back. "What did you tell him about John?"

Finally, the levee was cracking—the absurdity of it all was breaking over Robin, the fizzy wash of a fever dream that buzzed and crackled over everything these days—the office, the apartment, the door he never opened, the boxes he never touched—a switch turned somewhere in the universe, an electric pop above the static in his head. The clarity flooded him, a spotlight: So that was it. Things were never going to change, were they, Duncan? That's what you'd meant, wasn't it? What this year had been about? The haircut. The smile. The beautifully pressed Italian suit to deflect from all the things he'd never be. "Everything," said Robin. "I told him everything."

Distinguished guests, please welcome to the stage—

"And I told everyone."

The one and only—

"I called up the presses, spilled the beans on every last piece of gossip I've ever heard. Even gave them the number of an old friend of a friend at Harvard, just so they could ask him all about John."

Often imitated, never duplicated—

"I can see it now—John Tracy's spectacular debut. Front and Center. Bigger than you, Scott, bigger than Gordon, bigger than the great Jeff Tracy could ever have imagined."

Back by popular demand—

"Maybe if he's lucky something better will come along—something big enough and bad enough to make even his ambitious habit look like a failed hobby. But…what's bigger than John Tracy's fall from grace? I know I've been looking forward to this forever."

Robin saw it before it happened, the blankness in Scott's eyes, something in him shuttering, a steel curtain closing over the bunker—the blaring alarm—and Scott hit him.

The concussive whiteness.

The glass shattered.

"Jesus, Scott."

"What did you do?"

Voices above him, flickering.

"Is everything all right over here, sir?"

"Yes, we're fine."

"He's fine."

"What happened?"

"We heard a noise—"

"Sir, do we need to call—"

"No, really, there's no need. I apologize for my friend—"

Robin Locke!

"—he's had a bit too much to drink."

And the crowd went wild.