I left Volo's room card, the glove, and Tibe's fingerprint with Maven.
Just as he said he would be, Maven was loitering in a dead-end hallway on the ninth floor. We don't have anything to do for half an hour, and we've since gone our separate ways—as much as we'd like to, it wouldn't look good if we clung to one another all night long. We'd look like teenagers.
By myself, I return to the corridor where Maven and I collided with Volo. I round the corner again, finding the same golden elevators. Somehow, the bodies have gotten closer together, and there's an ebb and flow to them through the sweeping doors at my right. Like the sea, they materialize and vanish through the marvelous wooden doors with their wines and conversations. A waltz exhales from the ballroom into the corridor, a song of piano keys and strings.
"Mare."
I let myself walk an extra step before I bother to turn around. If I had a dime for every time somebody said that, I wouldn't need Elara to purchase my jewelry. I've been smiling all night, shaking hands, introducing myself over and over again as I've told half of the party-goers a hazy narrative about how Maven and I got together.
We became great friends as partners. Best friends, actually. Then one day, our ballet instructor told us that we had to learn how to kiss. And we liked that. All of the old men and old ladies that I tell the story to chuckle and tell me how cute we are, how we look just as smitten with each other as they were once upon a time.
"What do you want?"
My tone is quiet enough so that nobody hears my casual, rude words.
It would be entirely unbecoming of a high society girl if I was facing anyone other than Cal.
In his black tux that fits him so well, Cal stands a few feet from me. My heels only bring me up to his chin, and I find all the more reason to glare at him when he flashes his charming smile at me.
"Nothing that you want to give me. Where's my brother?"
He's stopped me just past the elevators at the hall's edge. I've been sticking close to it, finding the corridor's margins the easiest to navigate. Cal has the audacity to lean against the marble.
"Not sure. He's somewhere around here. Where's your girlfriend?"
Cal's expression darkens, and I regret my words the moment that they leave my mouth.
"Sorry," I mutter, dropping my gaze to the floor. "That was mean. I know that she makes you miserable."
"I'll forgive you." As I bring up my eyes, Cal shakes the words off. "If you dance with me. Evangeline's been trying to stab my feet with her heels all night, and I'd like one dance with a lady that isn't actively seeking to impale my feet. I hope that I'm not giving you ideas, Mare."
A smile pulls at my lips.
And a very nice distraction smirks down at me. I suppose that even Cal shouldn't have to dance all night with the wickedest witch in Manhattan.
Maybe I need the distraction too.
For once, I don't fight Cal. And I don't make him fight me.
I let my hand find Cal's. My fingers don't fumble, lacing between his easily. Cal's hand envelops mine, and my skin tingles from the warmth that his strong, keen hand radiates. The slight calluses on the ridges of his palm are nothing new to me. I know that they're from riding his motorcycle and lifting in the gym.
Then we're moving. His footfalls are low-pitched like his voice, drowned out in high society's sea. Mine are the opposite, jarring and incessant as we take our first steps towards the ballroom.
The sea parts for us. I should expect nothing less when I'm holding hands with Manhattan's crown prince. He carries himself like a king to be, wearing his tux as a king would a cape. Cal stands taller than most, and there's something about him that radiates power. It could be his fine clothes, his sculpted body, or his Calore name. His perfect smile and fiery eyes only add to the facade.
My hand adjusts in his. When Cal's skin feels so warm, I have to wonder how cold mine feels to him.
Eyes shift towards me. They were likely watching the Cal from the moment that he turned down this hall. The ladies who wouldn't move for me without an "excuse me" before and the gentlemen who I had to weave through before now step aside without hesitation.
Some nod their heads in reverence as they cut a pathway to the ballroom for me and Cal.
I catch the glares of envious young women who bring wine glasses to their red lips. The men, young and old, strung throughout the corridor regard Cal with respect, even as my contemporary teacher doesn't bother returning their gazes.
I feel his bronze eyes on me, peering at my own through his periphery.
The Plaza's ballroom is modest in size.
Its space isn't infinite like the ballroom of Calore Industries, but the two match one another for grandeur. As my mascara-rimmed eyes flick across the scene, I find it oddly intimate and warm, too. Like the color of my dance partner's eyes. Pilasters the color of parchment look golden in the chandelier light. Matching curtain sets sweep down before the great columns, framing various scenes throughout the ballroom. Cal and I pass through a set, finding more flowered tiles at our feet. Bearing magnificent gildings, the coved ceiling arches up three stories overhead, and massive twin chandeliers dangle in the air like falling but frozen stars.
Across the ballroom, little balconies are situated between the columns. Raised up a couple of feet, they're decorated with wrought iron railings and sumptuous chairs for viewers. At the leftmost edge of the ballroom is a little stage, where a quartet of men in tuxedos wait with violins and cellos. A woman in a black dress sits at a bench before her piano, and a man sits apart from the quartet with a sleek guitar at his knee. Bouquets of white dahlias rest in cerulean vases upon the tops of miniature glass tables. They rest at the edge of each column, the flowers oddly beautiful in their colorless forms.
The air is rich with perfume and cologne. The horrid, chaotic fusion of scents is enough to make my eyes water and my nose itch. At least the guests are quieter in the ballroom, content to murmur and listen to the music. The chandeliers leak golden color, but they leave the ballroom in molten shadows. There's a romantic buzz in the air that seems to undulate with the echoes and scents that have no tangible form.
"What's wrong?"
Cal's voice murmurs into my ear. I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. When I look at him, his eyes are already locked on mine. It's difficult to look away.
We get to the fringes of where people dance. Silks and jewels and wines whirl the way that waves do, coming off the end of a slower waltz. But I don't expect Cal to stop, and I follow him as he guides me between the bodies of ladies and gentlemen.
"Nothing."
My tone is defensive as Cal shifts, letting go of my hand for a moment. Instinctually, I let my other hand grab onto his shoulder as his hand latches onto my hip. Our other hands come back together, held between us at my shoulder level. The transition is easy, something that we don't skip steps for as we fall deeper into the dancing. Rich girls in satiny dresses and exorbitant jewelry dance with their boyfriends, holding wine glasses between their hands. Engaged women bear gaudy rings on their fingers, and married women eye other men over their husbands' shoulders.
"Are you not having fun?"
Cal's voice is still low. He guides me to a place in the sea where the guests make room for us before swelling closed. I find myself in the midst of disgusting, overwhelming opulence. Cal and his hands are the only familiar things.
"Not particularly."
"But there's something wrong. Did Evangeline say something to you?"
"No, Cal. She didn't."
The music starts again. But my ears don't find the powerful strings of a waltz. The romantic notes of the piano reverberate throughout the sea, and the low strings of the guitar join in. The quartet plays softly, like a whisper of a dream. A lone man's voice joins in.
I watch as the men around me pull their ladies a little closer. I don't hear the words that the man sings, but I imagine that they're about some woman. I should stiffen and pull away, but we're too deep into the dancing. We would have to retrace our steps, disrupt the dancing, catch the eyes of a dozen nosy couples to leave. It's not worth it to cause a spectacle.
It takes a moment, but Cal's hand leaves my hip, slipping to the small of my back. It forces me closer to him, and I catch the aroma of that woodsy, spiced cologne that he wore to the ballet.
"What's wrong, then?"
We begin to sway to the ballad. We travel around ourselves, gently rocking on our feet as we hold hands.
"Nothing. Why do you think that something's wrong? Nothing's—"
"I passed you in the hall a minute ago. You looked sad. You had your stage face on, but it slipped off for half of a second. You were frowning, and your eyes glazed over. I just came back to see if you were okay."
The ballroom isn't terribly packed, leaving us a bubble of five or so feet in radius. We're somewhere in the middle of the dancing, and there's an odd, unexpected calmness here.
I still feel silent, watching eyes on us as we sway to the man's voice, but I can't bring myself to care. Shadows slip between couples anyway, giving us some semblance of privacy. I'm with Cal. Not the man that all these people think he is.
His touch makes me feel safe. His words are gentle. And I have enough on my mind.
Kilorn's words rage like an alarm clock. Throughout the hallways, I replayed the things that he said to me in the hotel room. I remembered the agony that shone in his eyes as he spoke. Cal caught one of the moments that I let myself slip, let what I felt and remembered show on my face.
I replay every moment that I've ever shared with Kilorn. I grasp at every conversation, every laugh, every look between me and him. They slip like sand through my fingers as I try and fail to recall if I ever sent a bad signal, ever leaned my head against his shoulder, ever looked at him the wrong way. Nothing comes to mind. I possess no memories of Kilorn ever flirting with me, of smiling at me the way that Maven does, of showing any interest in me beyond friendship.
"I have—had this friend back home," I start, correcting myself.
"Hmm." Cal makes a sound from the back of his throat. He can probably feel the tension in my body under his hands.
"We've been best friends since I was eight, when he and his mom moved into our building. I guess he was my best friend up until July, actually. We pretty much grew up together. I was never popular at school, but he was always there. We didn't really hang out like normal teenagers, but we talked. Complained about what we didn't have and what we wanted. He wanted me to have what I wanted more than anyone else."
Cal's hand shifts on my back. It's like a caress.
"He dropped out of school like I did, and he's gotten into some bad stuff," I continue, letting Cal interpret my words as he wants. I could mean drugs, car theft, or gangs. "I haven't seen him much since July.
"Anyway, he found out that I was dating Maven, and he—" I cut myself off with a swallow. I can't exactly tell Cal how my old best friend is a matter of stories above us or how I was in a hotel room with him before he slipped out of the window and I slipped out of the door.
I make up another easy, little lie.
"He told me that he loved me," I mumble. "On the phone this morning."
With my face nearly pressed into Cal's shoulder, I can't see his expression any better than he can see mine. Still, I feel how his palm presses against my back. His other hand tenses against mine, and from what I can tell, his body grows a little stiff.
We waltz around each other, never really moving more than a couple of feet this way or that.
The shadows of the chandeliers shift with the people, and the man's singing voice reverberates throughout the ballroom.
"He asked me how Maven is different from him. He told me that he's always been there, always listened, always cared. He's right. He isn't very different from Maven in those ways."
The music carries on, weaving between the couples in its quiet, lovely melody.
"He told me that I've changed, too. He said that I never would've dated somebody like Maven before this autumn, before all of this happened. He basically called me a golddigger at one point, which didn't make me feel great. He thinks that I sold myself out, fell into high society's claws, and forgot everything that I ever believed about people like Maven and you."
I take a moment to pause. Cal doesn't seem inclined to say anything, but he doesn't fail to hold me close. My pulsing heartbeat slows in his proximity, sensing his safe, warm presence. His scent lingers in the inches between us.
"The whole situation just made me feel bad. I'm fine, so don't worry about me. But I just . . . keep replaying every second that I've ever shared with him, and for the life of me, I can't remember a single moment where he flirted with me or gave any sign of liking me."
Our steps around one another are easy, danced to the sounds of the faraway man's voice. The guitar strums, accompanied by the romantic sounds of piano and violin strings.
"Well, for the record, it sounds like he cares about himself more than he cares about you. He should be happy about everything that you have. Even if that includes Maven. Because he must know that you deserve to have everything that you want."
If I got any closer to Cal, his chin would perch atop my head. His hand feels nice against the cool, silken fabric of my dress. I wonder if we look good together. We must glitter as much as any other high society couple does, and we know how to dance.
A glance at my watch tells me that my minutes are numbered.
"And if he never flirted with you, it was just because he was afraid of losing what he did have with you."
A selfish, reckless thought sneaks into my head.
I could just stay here with Cal. He could keep his arm wrapped around my waist and dance with me. The Scarlet Street Fighters can hardly drag me out of the ballroom. Half of our plans tonight would fall through if I didn't leave, and Cal would protect me from the rest of the havoc that the Street Fighters plan on wreaking tonight.
"Yeah. I guess so," I murmur, letting myself inhale Cal's scent.
The cool metal of his watch presses ever-so-slightly into my back. His touch is tender, and it nearly makes me forget what a powerful man I dance with. We sway on our feet, rocking back and forth as we orbit around one another like two suns sharing a gravitational pull.
I could tell him everything. Murmur the Scarlet Street Fighters' plans into his ear, tell him that I'm sorry. I could tell him that I've made the biggest mistake of my life and that I need him to fix it.
He would fix it for me, wouldn't he?
The man's voice subsides like a boat sailing out to sea.
"Thanks for listening," I say quietly. "I think I needed to tell somebody about that."
"That's what I'm here for," Cal returns. "I'm always here for that."
In no time, the song bleeds into another. I want to stay and dance with him. Talk to him. Bicker with him. I should ask if he's gotten our race bibs yet, even though if I know anything about Cal, he has.
I force myself to glance at my wrist again. The clock's hand continues to tick, tick, tick.
"I should get going," I tell Cal as if I have some other place in Manhattan to be.
"Then I'll walk you out of this mess," he returns after a moment.
The cameras stop working at nine-thirty.
Swallowing, I gaze at my watch as the golden hand ticks past the ink-black six. The jeweler on Fifth Avenue set it perfectly, checking its time twice after Elara gave him a lecture on the importance of punctuality. The same bracelets that Kilorn mocked dangle from my other wrist to match the gold at my throat and ears.
Thanks to Ada Wallace, the Plaza security cameras have been flickering on and off throughout the evening. She rendered me and Maven invisible as we stole from Volo and snuck around on the floors upstairs. But now, at nine-thirty, all of the cameras shut off altogether. The Scarlet Street Fighters are too deep into the First Act to leave a trail of evidence.
The hall looks the same as the others that I've passed through tonight.
But unlike the lower floors of the Plaza, it's quiet up here. Dead silent. The pristine white-painted doors are few and far between, the carpeted halls stretching with patterns of purple and gold flowers.
It wasn't easy getting up here. I had to navigate three separate staircases to get to the twentieth floor. Somebody was always in my way, always trying to ask me something about ballet or Maven, and I had to take the most obsolete routes to lose them and make it seem like I was just heading back to the ballroom.
I wish I was still in the ballroom.
The carpet, at least, muffles the sounds of my heels. I shouldn't be up here.
I make it to the end of the eggshell-white corridor. The door would blend into the wall if not for the gorgeous bronze knob attached to its lefthand side. It accompanies a small screen that glows blue.
Without another look over my shoulder, I pull the card from its space between my breasts. The glove follows it, and I inwardly curse at Anabel for not choosing a dress with pockets for me.
I let myself look at the glove for a moment. It looks like an ordinary latex hospital glove, save for the strange texture of the thumb. From his wine glass, Ada managed to replicate Mister Calore's fingerprint onto it. She didn't learn how to do that at MIT.
Maven and I passed one another in a hall a while back. He tugged me into an alcove, gave me what I needed, and watched with a little too much interest as I shoved them into my bra cups.
He did get a room. He was planning to get one long before Evangeline said anything, but not for the same reasons. Maven's my alibi. As far as anybody knows, we're in that hotel room together right now. I told Maven to watch some pay-per-view and have a glass of wine if he thinks it'll calm him down. It's not going to do any good if he spends the next hour pacing around himself.
If only I didn't know him so well.
I hover the card over the screen before fumbling with my glove. It doesn't fit my hand, but I press my thumb to the screen anyway, heart beating harder than it has all night.
I like to think that I'm getting here fashionably early.
The door clicks when I remove my thumb. My latex-covered hand drifts to the doorknob, opening it with a lethal silence. My slim figure slips through before I seal myself inside.
The glove and keycard return to my dress as I take in the Plaza Hotel's penthouse suite.
The entryway is thrown into shadows. I pass white coat closets and dove grey walls. My ghostly reflection stares back at me through a golden-framed mirror, accompanied by a little table that bears white dahlias. A turn brings me to a hallway with a luxurious bedroom and bathroom. Framed paintings loom on the other side of the hall, wearing images that I'd have to stare at to understand. I meander past them wordlessly, hands behind my back. I lean forward on the balls of my feet so that my heels don't touch the wood.
I come to the sitting room. A set of plush, butter yellow chairs wait in front of a fireplace carved from red marble. Separated by a glassy coffee table, a periwinkle couch rests across from the fire that burns behind the glass. Gilded chairs accompany a lustrous wooden table, and barstools wait nearby an extensive collection of alcohol atop a counter. A wooden staircase climbs up through the air, turning to run alongside a wall that's painted with delicate boughs and pink and green flowers.
Heaping curtains sway. Somebody's left a window open, and the chilling breeze that seeps into the hotel room sends shivers across my skin.
Mister Calore, Mister Samos, and Mister Cygnet won't be here for a while. Neither will the mayor.
I can take my time finding a hiding place.