Chapter 5:
"An Unlikely Adversary"

July 27, 1915
Dr. Sullivan's Private Villa

Deryn could practically smell money the moment she walked inside.

The gala's venue was barking enormous- a ten acre private villa north of the Thames. It was several times larger than the Society, and somehow managed to be even more pompous and gaudy. Deryn felt inferior just looking at the place, and she was supposed to be a princess!

The princess would be used to that, she told herself. The pampered lass probably wakes up in a four-poster bed to maids massaging her feet with a tray of scones at the ready.

So, instead of gawking at the marble columns and crystal chandeliers and golden moulding on the walls, Deryn stuck her nose in the air, accepted a glass of what she figured was champagne from a servant that looked as shell-shocked as she felt, and followed the other guests straight to the ballroom.

Dr. Barlow had informed them outside that it would look suspicious for the princess of Wales to be seen with someone affiliated with the Society, which meant Deryn had entered alone before the others.

"That ignorant nitwit Churchill and the Admiralty will surely be present, but they've never before met the Princess in person. After you introduce yourself to them, it's unlikely that they'll bother you," Dr. Barlow added. "After all, he believes that women are beneath him." She sighed. "I do prefer my parrot Winston. He may be utterly incompetent, but somehow he's far more charming."

Alek wished her good luck the moment before she stepped inside. "I've got the canister in my jacket," he reminded her. "Just watch for Sullivan and leave the rest to me." He smiled at her wryly. "After all, you're going to be the talk of the night."

"Don't be daft, Alek." Deryn shot back. "I doubt a princess could ever capture everyone's attention nearly as well as a chemical weapon."

Surely enough, Churchill greeted her the moment she stepped inside the ballroom. Deryn barely had time to take in the outrageous décor, jaunty music blaring from a band of musicians, or the frantic, expectant feeling that hung thick in the air as the guests waited for the night's main event to begin.

"Greetings, Your Highness." Churchill seemed to appear from nowhere. Deryn recognized him right away- his ruddy face and bulbous nose were hard to miss, and his showy Admiralty uniform gleamed with medals. He bowed curtly to Deryn, who nodded her head in return. "You look lovely." He complimented her stiffly. Deryn didn't blame him. She was sure she looked rigid herself in these bulky skirts.

"How kind of you to say so," Deryn chirped in her best British accent. "But I must compliment you for the diligent work you've done to end this wretched war."

At this, Churchill chuckled snobbishly, as if she was a child suggesting that they should end the war by offering the Clankers sweets as a truce.

"All in the name of crown and country, of course. Please enjoy your evening, Your Highness. Forgive me, but I must excuse myself to attend some important matters." Without a word more he turned away and strode smugly away.

Aye, I'm sure that the table full of pastries where you're headed is the most important matter of the night, Deryn thought, but she was grateful that he'd left. Now she had the opportunity to search for Dr. Sullivan without distraction.

This would not be a particularly difficult task, she soon discovered, noticing a throng of guests in the center of the ballroom, holding drinks and chatting loudly. More than once she heard the boffin's name mentioned.

He's got to be over there, she thought, and made her way towards the crowd. Several guests approached her as she made her way over, but after a few quick words about her 'generous war efforts,' they let her be. Thrice she was asked to dance by different young gentlemen, and politely declined, apologizing and explaining to them that she had a weak constitution and didn't quite feel up to it. The only lad she'd even consider bothering to dance with tonight was Alek, and she wasn't even supposed to speak to him.

Finally, through the crowd she caught a glimpse of the man at the center of everyone's attention.

"That's him? That cannot be him." Deryn croaked under her breath. "Blisters, this might be easier than I thought."

...

Alek had been to a few elaborate soirees in his lifetime, but none seemed to be quite as boisterous as this one. The ballroom was alive with expectant chatter, and everyone seemed to be on edge, waiting for something to happen. Though there was a band blurting out some brassy, catchy tune, no one was bothering to dance. The guests were all far too worried they'd miss something if they didn't pay attention to what everyone else was doing.

Alek headed into the heart of the commotion straight away, sure that the doctor would be at the center of it. He could feel the canister of fake Black Star inside his jacket, pressing against his chest. He was a bit nervous that somebody would notice the bulge, but so far no one had paid a bit of attention to him.

Deryn, however, was having trouble avoiding attention. Alek had entered after she had, but he'd made far more ground. She seemed oblivious to it, but anyone who wasn't focused on the mob in the center of the room was staring straight at her. He supposed he wasn't being noticed because he was old news- everyone already knew all about the prince who had denounced his country and throne. A princess who'd never shown her face in high society before, though- that was something worth talking about. And she looked stunning in that gown.

"Pardon me, excuse me," Alek muttered as he steered himself through the thick crowd of guests. He craned his neck back to see if he could catch a glimpse of Deryn- it looked as if someone was asking her to dance-and slammed straight into something.

Not something, he realized as soon as he jerked backwards and realized what he'd collided with, but someone.

"Pardon….me," he apologized, craning his neck to look up at the man he'd just rammed into.

The gentleman was intimidatingly tall. Alek felt dwarfish in comparison- he had to be at least two meters tall. He was also handsome in an extremely eccentric sort of way. The gentleman's hair, so fair that it was nearly white, tumbled unbridled down his shoulders in gentle waves. In the bronze light of evening, it seemed to emanate a soft silver glow. Alek was astonished- aside from his height, the prominent lines of his jaw, and the sharp angles of his face, Alek might have mistaken him for a woman.

Most noticeably of all, the man was carrying a silver briefcase at his side, and a bowler hat sat atop his head. He must be Dr. Sullivan, Alek assured himself. He's a scientist, and he's likely keeping the canisters of Black Star at his side in the briefcase, just like Dr. Barlow predicted.

"Not to worry," said the gentleman in a surprisingly gentle British accent. "I seem to be quite unscathed. On the other hand, you, Mr. Hohenberg, look as if you've seen a ghost."

"I'm just not particularly accustomed to such…festive environments," Alek admitted. He wasn't surprised that Sullivan knew his name. After all, he had invited Alek. "I must say I feel a touch out of place here."

"As do I," replied Sullivan. "But it is a necessary discomfort."

"Well, despite the circumstances, it is good to meet you, Dr. Sullivan," Alek offered his hand to the boffin.

Sullivan looked at the offering with something like a sly smile before taking Alek's hand in his own. "I must correct you, Mr. Hohenberg," he professed, "but I am not, in fact, Chester Sullivan. I'm what you could call his business partner. My name is Eliot Vost."

Alek hoped he was able to conceal his shock. If this wasn't Sullivan, than where was the man? "It seems that I must apologize to you once more. I saw your hat and simply assumed you were Sullivan."

Eliot raised his eyebrows. "We are both scientists, but Chester prefers to do things a bit…differently. He refuses to wear his bowler hat in public, no matter how often I tell him he should." Alek's neck was beginning to get sore from craning upwards. "You are not the first to mistake me for him."

Eliot jerked his chin to his left. "That is Chester. The one with the ridiculous patchwork jacket." He rubbed his face in agitation. "He's the richest man in the room next to Churchill and he still wears that rubbish."

Surrounded by white-faced women prancing about like a flock of birds in their vibrantly colored dresses, the red-faced Dr. Chester Sullivan seemed to have nearly reached the punchline of an elaborate joke. The crowd around him was waiting expectantly, and a jubilant sort of tension clung to them.

He had the round face of a boy who had yet to lose his baby fat. He looked like a child with pink, plump cheeks and a smile wide as a clown's. Dr. Sullivan was indeed wearing a patchwork jacket, and there were so many squares of fabric on it that the original cloth was almost completely hidden.

"He's not what you expected, is he?" Eliot asked. "He may look like a fool, but he's downright brilliant. I may technically be running Red Star Chemicals, but it's his genius that created the company, and it's his genius that will win this war."