The sweetness of my cocktail spilled across my tongue as my eyes swept across the large museum foyer brimming with guests. Publishers and their representatives, donors with heavy pockets, and anyone else inclined to the limelight of the public stage all milled about, and I among them. There was something rather seductive about it, even I found myself once again dazzled by the flashing lights and pretty outfits. But the importance of my mission kept me grounded, reminding me exactly why Andy would always remain in control even while Andrea played.

Now, dear reader, you might be wondering how I could go from Andy to Andrea back to Andy and suddenly one dress and pair of heels later, Andrea was once again on the scene, walking through the Met's doors like she hadn't taken a sketchy taxi instead of a town car to get there.

You're in luck. Here are the tips I learned in my time at fashion heaven before my inevitable fall from grace:

Nigel's advice was to always make sure the ladies were facing forward. For clarity's sake, he was referring to the bosom. Apparently, crooked boobs ruined the artistic quality of a gown, even for a gay man.

Emily's general mantra was to always apply more mascara than you think you need and walk like you're pissed off.

I even have subtle tips from the matriarch herself, Miranda Priestly, who never once nodded at anything olive. Not moss, not emerald, not pear. Olive. Take your puke green elsewhere.

As for me? Well, the Sach's Runway signature, direct from me to you, is simple enough.

Fake it 'till you make it.

I easily slipped past throngs of people, or rather, Andrea slinked by with her coy smile and head held high. After securing my drink, I was completing a lap around the grand room, inspecting faces, eavesdropping on conversations, isolating possible targets or leads.

"It's chilly," a voice whined behind me.

I looked over my shoulder to see Miranda's form crossing through multiple bodies with each step on the crowded floor to follow me. She was shaking her head at the woman that had just complained of the cold to her partner. Miranda looked at me and rolled her eyes.

With a smirk, I turned forward once more and tried to find a more open section for my ghost counterpart. After a few steps towards the outer ring of the dance floor, I paused to seemingly sip at my drink, allowing Miranda a moment of respite without spooking unknowing guests.

Unfortunately, that's when I spotted a particular redhead.

"Shit, Emily is here," I muttered into my glass so only Miranda would hear, "Why would she come if she doesn't need to help you remember everyone's name?"

Her white head bobbed towards my beverage. "I suspect the free libations might have something to do with it."

Emily's hands were heavily animated, face expressive, evidently in heated conversation. I shook my head as a young man beside her rolled his eyes, inciting her excitement further.

"Probably guarding your legacy knowing her," I sighed, turning to glance at the sitting area of barstools and cocktail tables, "My plan to perch at the bar in plain sight all evening isn't going to work with her around."

If she spotted me, my cover would be blown for sure.

"You could peruse the artwork," Miranda reasoned, looking towards the nearby hallway lined with frames.

It would limit how many people Miranda could see, but it was better than nothing. Maybe Emily would leave with a little time. I started to casually stroll towards the adjoining wing nearby.

"You mean actually look at the paintings at an art gallery? Crazy," I teased under my breath.

"I miss having the time to do so at functions such as this one."

I snorted. "Kinda hard when you barely spend fifteen minutes at the function to begin with."

We dipped into the entryway and found the room mostly empty, the loud noise of the foyer lessening with each step. One or two people had also taken time to themselves to enjoy what the museum had to offer. A man and woman were flirting shamelessly by the looks of things behind a potted plant in the corner.

Miranda continued, "I rather loathe the social aspect of this industry."

"I thought that was part of the appeal," I murmured softly, moving to observe a large painting before me. The gesture was mainly to keep my back to any other guests.

Miranda stepped beside me, also inspecting the art. "For some. I prefer using fashion as my voice."

I raised my drink to my lips and smirked over the edge of the glass. "The power to choose what people wear from a room full of stuff?"

Blue flashed away from the wall to me. Apparently my little jab from the past had hit the mark, but I had expected a roll of the eyes, a dramatic wave, a chiding comeback, something from our usual dance. Instead, she looked back at me with something I didn't recognize. Not anger. But it was just as sharp.

I turned to move and look at the next painting, casting a quick search about the room for any new faces, but I still felt her eyes on me. She quietly appeared once again on my left, close enough that the air cooled between us. My strapless dress left my arms exposed to the unique sensation.

"While you have been removed from this world for a brief period of time, you've returned with ease," her voice calmly assessed.

I kept my eyes glued to the dark background of the portrait in front of me.

"Hardly."

"You handled the entry and mingling to get to this point gracefully."

"It was the disguise," I replied dismissively, moving on to the next piece, "Even I couldn't resist keeping one or two things from the Closet and your pile of rejected freebie presents after Emily called dibs."

This time, as Miranda followed, she stepped to the side of the artwork, facing me. The editorial gaze was sliding down my body. I forced my breathing to remain steady.

"You kept the classic pieces that will age well. A formal black dress highlighting the right features can be timeless," she assessed, finally resting her eyes on my face as she spoke.

Andrea basked under the inspection. I tried to shove her back down.

"Are you admitting I actually have a fashion sense?" I bantered back.

"Perhaps," Miranda mused, beginning to step around me, "I could alternatively be complimenting whomever taught you."

"Oh? Nigel?"

I heard a scoff behind me. She had clearly meant herself.

Reappearing on my other side, she commented authoritatively, "In any case, it takes more than the selection of the right dress to make it look acceptable."

I raised an eyebrow, assuming the teasing retribution was coming. "Oh really? What else does it take?"

There was no scathing comeback. Instead, she tilted her head thoughtfully, halo of white hair almost looking angelic against the black of the baroque painting behind her. She licked her lips.

"The right figure," she stated simply.

My mouth went dry. It had to be a joke. The alternative was too warm a compliment for her. I was getting too warm.

"Not sure how a 'fat' girl like me has the right figure," I jested, beginning to move on to the next painting.

Miranda, however, stepped into my path. I instinctually stopped. The chill now crept up my chest and collar bones, a stark contrast to the heat simmering just beneath the surface.

"Still harping on that?" she questioned gently, almost a whisper, "You always had precisely the right figure."

You are very fetching.

My lips parted, but nothing came out. Words and air were stuck.

Those damn eyes were inspecting me again, and I watched helplessly as they flickered back and forth, fearing their judgement. Suddenly, they twitched and transfixed at something over my shoulder, and Miranda frowned.

"Rembrandt."

Huh? The Danish dude?

"What?" I rasped.

Her eyes narrowed. "The painting."

"What about it?" I asked, carefully turning so as not to draw attention to myself.

"The woman next to it."

Despite my lack of any art history training, the person in question was easy enough to spot in the mostly empty room. A deep red dress, very blonde, very pretty. This new stranger seemed more interested in her phone and sipping on her drink than the art.

"Who is she?" I whispered, turning oh so casually back to our painting.

There was no answer.

"Miranda."

She winced slightly as she continued to stare over my shoulder. Her fingers brushed against her temple. "She seems familiar."

Miranda was not in the habit of apologizing (she'd probably combust), but I noticed the sad disappointment of her tone.

I gave a single, slight nod. This had been the plan. It had to mean something.

Well, cheers.

With a turn, I raised my drink to my lips, my other arm hanging lazily by my side with my clutch dangling from a loop around my wrist. Gliding past the art with a bored expression, heels clicking like a calm, steady heartbeat, I inched closer until the huge canvas before me was adjacent to hers.

I made a show of looking up and gasping lightly. The woman's attention separated from her phone, and she looked up at me.

I leaned forward and announced sweetly, "I just have to tell you, I love your dress."

Shock switched to a smirk. "Thanks. Valentino."

"It's fake," Miranda intoned darkly behind me. Forget murder, to her, this was clearly the bigger crime.

"Are you with one of the businesses here?" I asked, taking a step closer, faking another sip of my beverage.

She shook her head as she placed a hand on her hip. "I used to work for Runway, but I'm here now on a friend's invite. The publishing world is smaller than it looks."

Girl, trust me, you wouldn't believe how small.

"I'm so jealous, my job here at the museum only gets exciting when we host events like this," I gushed, gesturing down to her outfit, "I bet you got all sorts of cool dresses when you worked there."

With a shrug, she glanced back down at her phone and drawled, "It had its perks, but working for that bitch Priestly was hardly worth it."

My eyes went wide before I could stop them. Fuck.

"You worked with Miranda?" I gasped to match my genuine surprise, "The Miranda?"

"One of her assistants," she confirmed as she looked up from her cell.

I heard Miranda inhale quickly behind me. I guess that cleared the confusion.

"So what's the deal? She as mean as they say?" I prodded her, eyebrows still quizzically raised as I took another fake sip.

Who didn't love to gossip?

The woman scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder, "Worse. She would throw her coat and shit on my desk everyday. Constant coffee runs, last minute demands for meals she wouldn't even touch. Pain in the ass."

Nothing out of the ordinary there.

"That's crazy, I probably would've just quit," I commented, shaking my head.

Oh wait, I did quit. Funny, right?

"Ugh, she fired me before I could, but I was on my way out anyway. My boyfriend knows a modeling agent," the woman smiled primly as she spoke before her phone lit up, "Aaand that would be him. Gotta run. Nice meeting you."

"Same." I offered a small wave and watched her walk away.

She hadn't said anything too different than our friend at Vogue. But Yellow had been sad. Not a killer, probably. As for our new acquaintance, Red, the anger was on a different level, though not unexpected. If I was a drunk stranger in the women's bathroom at a bar, I would've loved the sassy energy, but now?

Something was off. Call it the hunch of a scrappy journalist. What else was I going to do all night?

Once she turned the corner back into the foyer, I began to follow her.

"She worked for you and you didn't remember? How many assistants have you gone through after me?" I muttered to the specter I assumed was following me.

"I have more important concerns on a daily basis," Miranda retorted neutrally, voice close behind.

"Just admit you missed me," I sang teasingly over my shoulder before I emerged back into the noise and the crowds.

I followed the red dress heading for the exit, trying to form a plan as I narrowly avoided colliding with other guests in my pursuit. It would be much harder to follow at night without the general cover of busy streets. Would I have to ask a taxi driver to follow another car, like in the movies? This was going to be next level. Possibly dangerous.

But I had to try. For Miranda.

Out the doors and down the stone steps we went. The suspect was already on the sidewalk, turning to strut God knows where.

"Andrea."

I froze. That wasn't Miranda's voice.

I whipped around as Emily stalked down the steps. This was so not the time.

I looked over my shoulder back to the street, but the blonde in the red dress was gone.

"Was it you?" the Brit barked at me.

I faced Emily once more. "What?"

She took one threatening step closer in a ludicrously tall heel, heavy make up underlining the scathing ferocity she was directing my way.

"Did you try to kill her?" Each word was spat like a stabbing blow.

What the fuck?

"Are you insane? Of course not," I countered, glaring back.

She immediately asked, "Then why have you been snooping around her hospital room?"

"How did you know that?"

"Answer the bloody question," she hissed.

"I didn't do it. But I want to find out who did," I answered firmly and honestly.

She scoffed, voice raising, practically shouting at me, "Right. Must need a breaking story for your pathetic little paper, that's why you're here tonight."

I grunted back, "Screw the paper. This is personal."

Her responding laughter was mockingly loud.

"Oh, please, you sound like such a tit, you honestly think you can just come prancing back-"

"She is haunting me!" I screamed, cutting off whatever stupid insult she had ready.

She blinked at me, eyes wide, her building rampage now snuffed out. Even I was surprised by my outburst.

I took a deep breath.

"I offered my apology in the form of clothes and you took it. I know you and I are fine. So you're here because of some loyalty to her, right?" I questioned as calmly as possible, gesturing back to her.

She nodded slowly.

"Me too," I admitted, my voice cracking before I could control it, "I still see her face everyday. I can't rest until I know what happened. You and I both know she would never try to take her own life like that. Not with the kids. Not with Runway."

I roughly swallowed, blinking away the small tears that had sprung from seemingly nowhere.

It was as much of the truth as I could spare, and carrying the burden of that truth was beginning to really tire me out. If anyone could maybe come close to understanding, it was Emily.

Her body went limp, all her anger clearly spent.

"You'd think even after all she did to us, we'd hate her," she mumbled quietly, offering me a melancholy grin.

I rubbed my face with my hand. I was suddenly exhausted, my adrenaline for the night extinguished.

"She just did her job," I sighed, "And wanted us to do the same. Our jobs."

"That's why you left. I hadn't been sure."

My hand fell from my face. Emily inspected me curiously.

"What do you mean?"

"You're disappointed it was just a job," she assessed, rubbing her chin, "Bit ironic when you think about how you started, innit?"

I frowned in confusion. "You're here too trying to defend her honor, or whatever this was."

"Ah yes, but you see, Andrea, I love fashion and art," she practically swooned, hand now covering her heart, "That was the love that fueled my dedication and loyalty to a master of fashion and art worthy of my respect. The same love that kept me going when it was simply dreadful."

She paused to cross her arms and continue looking down at me.

"I thought the Jimmy Choos had seduced you when I was in the hospital, but I'd wager," she leaned towards me and whispered surreptitiously, "something else seduced you."

She was so wrong and so right at the same time. But my ethereal companion was lurking behind me, listening, so I had to be careful.

I stood up straighter and kept my tone even as I asked, "Are you implying Miranda and I slept together?"

"Did you?" she fired back.

"First you think I tried to murder her, now you think we slept together? Didn't happen," I groaned, letting my annoyance soak into my voice.

She was being ridiculous.

Her smirk was devious. "But you wanted it to."

She was absolutely right.

I closed my eyes, exhaling deeply.

"You know what, Emily, as enlightening as this conversation has been, I shockingly haven't been getting much sleep running around the city trying to solve a murder, so, I'm gonna head home," I bit back sarcastically, turning to finish my descent down the steps.

I was wishing I had pounded back more of that vodka cranberry inside.

Emily's voice called out to me again, "Andrea."

I stopped with a huff and turned to glare over my shoulder. Hadn't she harassed me enough for one night?

The look she gave me was one of empathy. Emptied of her fighting spirit, a sad smile was left.

"When you solve it, drinks on me. Alright?" she offered gently with a nod.

I grinned back. "Deal."

With another nod, she turned and retreated back to the museum, and I continued to the sidewalk. I looked hopelessly across the street in either direction.

"She's gone," I sighed in defeat.

Miranda stepped into my line of sight, and thoughtfully advised, "None of the assistants since you were allowed to deliver the Book. She did not bring that poison to my home."

"I'm not sure if whoever did this to you ever entered the townhouse," I reasoned before grumpily adding, "Next time someone blocks me when trying to pursue a suspect, you still watch the suspect to at least see which way they go."

She merely shrugged. "I was interested in what Emily had to say. Her loyalty is surprising."

I shook my head and laughed, beginning the slow stroll to the subway station. "Please. The woman took a taxi to the face for you. She is the most devout worshipper at the Temple of Priestly."

Miranda inspected me from the corner of her eye as she walked beside me.

"What does that make you?"

I shot her a look.

"Do temples have janitors?"