The Park

by ChloeCharles

"You held a certain fascination..." Set mid-1x13. AU. When Blair leaves the bar that night, she doesn't go home.

28. Chapter 28

A/N: At last, we're here. The Gala will span two chapters; I submit to you the first. Put on your formalwear and enjoy, and please see my author's note at the end. =)

In case anyone likes reading with a soundtrack the way I do, the theme of this chapter is 'Million Dollar Secret' by Lucius.

XOXO

i.

Late afternoon

"Well, I'm going blind," Erik murmurs, upbeat and ironic, between his teeth. "Anyone else?"

In Chuck's peripherals, Serena's shoulders shake, but she mutes her laughter.

Lily glances sideways at the lineup: Bart to her right, Serena—statuesque and nearly as tall as Bart in her spiked heels—and Erik to her left, then Chuck. Van Der Woodsens flanked by Basses.

She angles her head forward. "Charles, come closer," she beckons, nodding her head instructively.

Erik adjusts his hand on Chuck's shoulder; Chuck drapes his arm across Erik and his fingertips brush Serena, then retract. Serena doesn't flinch.

After another minute of dizzying flashbulbs, Lily slides her arm from Serena's waist, but stops her daughter from breaking formation.

She calls to the photographers: "Could you get some of just the children, please," and nudges Bart – her arm, in its long ivory glove, tucked into his elbow – out of the way, to the base of the Met steps.

Serena face-palms good-naturedly, Erik's head tilting up to snicker at her, as a shutter flickers, capturing the candid.

"Come along now, just a few," Lily calls. Then: "Charles, come stand on the other side of Serena?"

He circles behind the Van Der Woodsens and stands by Serena's side, as she busies herself with adjusting Erik's lapels.

When she straightens, she says "sorry" to him, under her breath.

He looks at her, their eye levels aligned. The expression in her eyes is anxious, a sharp difference from her light, laughing affect. Without a word, he offers her his bent elbow. She hooks her arm through it, straightens her spine and lifts her head to face the cameras.

"Maybe a smile?" Lily's voice wafts hopefully from the sidelines.

"Mom, it's not homecoming," Serena protests, perfectly carefree.

"Sorry," Lily replies. She doesn't sound sorry at all. "Just humor me."

"Anything to delay seeing those roses, right?" Chuck says out of the corner of his mouth, registering Lily's bubble of laughter in his ears.

Photographic duties fulfilled, the Van Der Bass children rejoin Bart and Lily, who are still arm in arm, as the matriarch collects the skirt of her ivory gown in her free hand and they start up the Met steps in a row: Serena crossing to the far side of her mother, opposite from Chuck.

The sweeping red curtains at the top of the steps are closed.

On the way up, Bart makes an appropriately father-like comment about, of all things, the weather. Erik humors him, agreeing that the unseasonable mildness does bode well for red carpet entrances: no coats to hand off, no beanies messing up hairstyles—

Here, Lily exclaims, "beanies?", like Erik has just suggested sacrilege.

"Well, if it's cold—" Erik defends, and that's when Chuck first hears it, on a low frequency, a distant rumble of thunder. He freezes, one foot on the next step.

It takes the others a few seconds to register the sound—they're obviously not poised, listening for the slightest shift in the atmosphere, like he is—and the Bass Der Woodsen phalanx slows to a halt in an uneven motion, Serena, distracted, taking two more steps up than anyone else before pausing.

The sun is setting, throwing a warm gold film over the entire scene of the Gala arrival. Serena doesn't need to bring a hand up to shade her eyes, but she does it anyway. Chuck, jaws tight, his back to the growing din, watches her do it. He studies her face, waiting to read her reaction.

Lily has paused, half-turned on Bart's arm, and is surveying the scene in front of the Met. "Hmm," is all she says.

Feeling Erik pivot at his side, beanie argument abandoned, Chuck closes his eyes for one long moment, then steps up and turns.

ii.

Earlier

Erik detours back to the 21st floor when he realizes he needs a little cologne; Chuck takes the elevator to the lobby, checking his combed-back hair in the mirror, corsage box tucked under one arm, and loiters just outside the entrance to Divine, leaning against a pillar, like Serena hiding from the paparazzi that night that now feels like it was ten years ago.

Apparently when Van Der Woodsens say "let's rendezvous in ten," they really mean twenty, Chuck notes with a smirk as the gilded clock in the lobby of The Palace strikes five.

New York One is on the flat-screen behind the bar, and over Andrew's bent head as he examines the shaker he's polishing, the Met steps fill the picture. A bright-eyed blonde in a stiff-shouldered, double-breasted black cocktail dress who takes herself too seriously as a journalist begins giving opening remarks "from the front lines of the inaugural Met Museum Valentine's Day Gala: an event unexpectedly charged with relevance from an intersection of power, philanthropy, fashion and public interest."

Chuck sighs and pulls out his phone. No missed calls.

"Patrons started arriving a short time ago, many of them sporting couture debuted just last week on the runways of Bryant Park," the reporter is saying, by way of introducing a style correspondent, a fashion and society columnist from Conde Nast, who joins her at the edge of the red carpet.

He's wanted to call Blair since he woke up, but there's both nothing and only one thing to say. It will be obvious what he wants to know. It's what everyone in New York wants to know.

"…of course things are just getting started here, and it may be too soon to call, but from the look of things, I'm going to put this out there: I think blue is the color of the season."

"Is that just any blue, or a specific blue?"

"Well, so far, it's the lighter blue palette predominantly seen—" a well-trained tech flips the feed from the journalists to a spread of runway photos from the Marc Jacobs show—"in this season's collection of Marc Jacobs, who's doing fascinating things with this color."

"And correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm sort of sensing a classical, almost Victorian flavor to the couture?"

"Good eye, Melissa!" (Chuck rolls his eyes; these two are horrible actresses.) "Not quite Victorian, but a definite historical inspiration happening in this collection."

The view comes back to the pair in front of the Met, and they start the obligatory and-who-are-you-wearing-tonight volley. Chuck glances around—it's odd that Bart is late, though perhaps he stopped in the Van Der Woodsens' suite and is trying to herd them toward the lobby.

His phone vibrates against his heart.

He palms it, though the layers of jacket and lining, then pulls it from the inside pocket.

He can't think of a quip, so he answers, "Hi."

"Hi to you too," Blair says. "I was wondering if I'd catch you before you left."

"You succeeded," he says, glancing over his shoulder again, more quickly now. Coast clear. He slips further around the pillar and ducks into Divine, now praising the Van Der Woodsens and their collective tardiness. "How—are you?"

"I'm good." He can hear a small smile in her tone. "You?"

"Good too. You… have a good day so far?"

She pauses. "I slept late," she says. "Almost until noon. I slept like a baby. No dreams."

He remembers her, last night – in her walk-in closet with all those gowns, saying she didn't deserve it, no matter what – and the long wet way home, rainwater dripping into his eyes and slipping under his collar, crying hot tears on Fifth Avenue. (His shoes are indeed ruined.)

"I'm glad to hear that," he replies, low.

He hears her swallow, but her voice doesn't waver from that smiling-Blair tone. "I almost… forgot."

He blinks, gaze fixed blindly on the flat screen. "Everything?"

"Yup," she says, and goes quiet.

A real smile engulfs his face. "That's—"

"Charles?" Lily's smooth voice glides through the lobby behind him.

He shuts his eyes. Of course.

Blair is asking how he slept, and how his day was, while he tracks the distant click of high heels.

"I slept well," he tells her—a worthy lie, the correct time to be dishonest— "though not as well as you."

She laughs in his ear. "Not like a baby?"

He makes a hissing sound. "How do babies sleep, exactly?"

"Actually, you're right. It's not a great—"

A dazzle of red comes around the corner into Divine: Serena, in blood-red satin, long sleeves; her hair pinned up in the fullest, most avant-garde French twist imaginable, with loose wisps at her ears and simple diamond studs.

She looks stunning. Maybe the most beautiful he's ever seen her.

"Chuck. Didn't you hear us calling?" She's blank-faced.

He dedicates a moment to giving her an are-you-kidding-me glare. She's the one that's twenty minutes late. (As ever.)

"My mom is ready to go," she adds, a little sharper, but her heart's not in it – and notably, she keeps her distance. The errand of helping look for him is clearly one she's been assigned.

Then she notices the phone.

Blair has gone quiet.

Serena blinks at him, expression unreadable. "Is that…?"

Quiet in his ear, Blair says, "you have to go?"

At the sound of her voice, he pulls himself together. He plugs the microphone as best he can with the pad of his thumb, and tells Serena he'll be there in a minute.

There's a surprising little twist in his chest as he watches her gaze drift to the floor, after a painful few seconds of looking at the phone; she nods minutely, and turns and goes without another word.

He comes back to Blair. "Sorry about that."

"You have to go?"

Yes.

"No," he says. "Not yet."

"Is… the car waiting?"

He smiles. "Wolfgang is patient."

"No Arthur tonight?"

"We're taking Bart's car." He pauses, then sees Andrew raise his hand in the deferential way that all Palace employees do when they wave to Bart, and he knows his father must be just outside, in the lobby. He's not willing to wager that Serena is buying him a few minutes, either.

So he takes a different gamble.

"Which means Arthur's available," he tells her. "In case you might… need him."

There's a brief silence.

"Thanks," Blair says. "I'll remember that."

Does she sound stiff, or is he imagining it?

Before he can think what else to say, eyes flicking around, he hears her clear her throat. "You should go. Can't keep Bart waiting."

"He won't mind," Chuck says blindly, not sure why he wants to keep her on the phone, except that he can't hear her smiling anymore. "I don't even think—"

"Charles?" Bart calls, then materializes a moment later, leaning over the threshold to Divine. He sees the phone and gestures behind him, lowering his voice. "Everyone's waiting."

"Sorry," Chuck says to him, lamely, and without stopping to cover the mouthpiece. "Coming."

Bart disappears as quick as he came, and Blair says, "Go ahead. Enjoy the night."

His shoulders slacken. "Call me if you… need anything," he says, equally lame.

"Will do." All business. "Bye."

He pockets the phone, telling himself he shouldn't be uneasy, there's no reason, she slept like a baby and it was a harmless comment—

And turns to go—and thank God there's no foot-tapping Lily standing in the entrance to Divine—and his gaze slides over the flat screen, which Andrew has transitioned to closed-captioning, maybe for his phone call, maybe because Bart gave him some hand signal.

The two correspondents have apparently progressed to the "public interest" portion of their script. He's disappointed he missed it; he can only imagine how that segue would have gone: -And, correct me if I'm wrong, but I think there's a private citizen whose personal life has been the source of obscene speculation in recent weeks, that we're all dying to talk about tonight; right, Melissa? -Wow, that's a great point. And she's a minor, no less! Let's go ahead and get right into it…

Having started toward the door of Divine, he drifts almost immediately to a stop, watching the lines of text unfold downward, each comment dropping from its predecessor, one bit of gossip birthing the next.

And Blair hasn't been seen in public since.

That's correct. Now, it's worth noting that there's a lot of speculation she'll make her re-debut into society tonight, especially given the fact that, as you may know, Melissa, Blair's personal style, widely publicized around the time of her debutante ball in December and then again in the last month, inspired parts of numerous prominent designers' collections shown last week.

Can't blame them, can we?

The view flips from feed to photos, the same sets used in the Page Six Fashion Week coverage. There she is, in formal wear on the left of the screen; a beat later, the corresponding runway look appears on the right.

After a half dozen or so, they've made their point and the two correspondents reappear, looking so serious and intense they're almost frowning.

Impeccable, the screen reads, as Melissa deadpans.

Chuck snorts. These girls think they're Geraldo at Capone's vault.

Well, there's no sign of Blair Waldorf yet, but the night is young—the words are racing down the screen, like they're wrapping up to go to commercial break—and for now we're all wondering one thing.

Melissa gestures expansively as she says this, around at the crowd of reporters, journalists, business titans—half of everyone who matters in New York—and focuses back in on the viewers of New York One.

He feels hot under his collar.

To B or not to B?

That is the question, her companion agrees.

As predicted, the feed cuts to commercial.

He turns to go, and nearly runs into Lily, who's standing just over the threshold, watching too. She's resplendent in ivory satin (strapless, drop-waist, full flowing skirt from below the hip); hair in a low, smooth chignon, with a delicate necklace and gloves to her elbows.

He opens his mouth to apologize.

"Disgusting," she pronounces, eyes not having moved from the screen.

She comes to her senses a moment later and pastes on a well-we'll-just-have-to-go-to-the-ball-anyway smile. "Wolfgang's in the garage."

Coming around the pillar and spotting the rest of the family waiting elevator-side, he apologizes for making them late, and Lily narrows her eyes mischievously, saying she hardly thinks he's responsible for that.

He makes a sympathetic face and, on an impulse, wraps one arm around her narrow shoulders mid-stride. "So," he says quietly, and she leans in, "I heard some roses were… drooping?"

Lily mock-buries her face in her hands (not actually touching, so she doesn't smudge her makeup), and makes a pitiful sound. "Oh, Charles. You just wouldn't believe the day I've had…"

iii.

Earlier

He pauses, looking over his shoulder, eyebrow quirked. The espresso machine vibrates to life at his chest.

"'Drooping'?" he asks.

Erik blinks, deadpan: "'Drooping.'" He holds up one hand, palm-down, and flicks his fingers, then lets them dangle.

Chuck's shoulders shudder with amusement. "Sounds like a disaster."

"No 'good morning' or anything," Erik adds, shouldering off his garment bag. He takes a breath, winding up for an impression of his mother, and begins punching frantically at an imaginary Blackberry in the hand that's holding the hangers. "Just: 'Darling!—the black gauze roses are drooping!'"

The blond runs a hand through his hair.

"And pacing."

(In what her children call her 'business robe': cream brocade, stiff, high-necked, like what a queen wears for private audiences; coordinated pajama set; feet stuck in beaded closed-toe slippers.)

Erik snorts, shaking his head in bewilderment. "Like if the ceiling decorations in the foyer are sagging, we might as well just call the whole thing off. And how she's not even chair of that committee, yet of course, this all falls on her, the morning of."

Chuck arches an eyebrow as the espresso machine hums, feigning confusion: "And you didn't want to get dressed in that sort of environment, or…?"

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Erik drapes his garment bag over one of the high-backed bar chairs.

The espresso burble slows to a drip, and Chuck withdraws the cup, still smiling, and saucers it and slides it across the bar.

"Serena helping her?" Chuck asks, half-curiosity, half-obligation.

Erik, in the process of pulling out the other chair, pauses with his palm on its backrest. He looks up and makes eye contact, expression sober.

"I don't think she's even out of bed yet," he says after a moment. Something else twitches on his mouth, then dies.

Chuck is the first to look away: he turns back toward the coffee machine, but instead reaches to open the cupboard above the refrigerator and withdraws a wide, flat box: matte black, fabric-covered, with a pointed little bow tied in black grosgrain.

He turns, box in hand.

"Good," he says. "That gives me a private excuse to present you with this."

Erik, licking his upper lip where he's just burnt himself from sipping too soon (a convenient distraction), blinks at it, an uncertain little smile forming. He looks at Chuck.

"What's this?"

"You're my date," Chuck reminds him. "Well, you and Nathaniel."

Erik smiles bigger, reaching for the grosgrain. "Chocolates?" he guesses.

Chuck's eyes crinkle. "You said you preferred them over a corsage." He looks around for the room service menu. "Let's get our lunch order in, too; we'll need our strength if those roses don't perk up."

iv.

Earlier

After he and Nate hang up, phone pocketed, he leans against the window and looks at the oddly mild Manhattan peering back at him through the glass: eighteen stories below, a woman's silk scarf floats behind her, caught in a breeze—unseasonable in itself. A runner bounces past, opposite direction, in shorts and a long-sleeved warm-up, no jacket. Yesterday's rain melted any last patches of cindery ice, any blunted mounds of dirt-caked snow.

He thinks what this day should have been like; what it would have been like, if.

Blair and Serena would have been together, at the very least. Almost definitely at the Waldorf penthouse, sleeping over the night before, with thick face masks (he's seen photos) and bubble baths and a stack of Vogues for hair inspiration. Nail appointments in the morning, then hair in the afternoon, and if Eleanor was in Paris, Blair and Serena would arrive as a pair, elbow to elbow on the red carpet, with poses so coordinated that they looked suspiciously practiced.

A year ago, before the Captain's disgrace, he and Nate would have been at the Archibalds' together, breakfasting with Howard and Anne, entering as a unit so Chuck wouldn't have to go alone.

But it's tempting to think, today, of the four of them going together.

He swallows the bitterness at the bottom of his espresso cup, picturing it: he and Arthur collecting Nate, the ding of the Waldorf elevator, the echo of Serena's laughter as soon as they hit the foyer; barely a space for their garment bags among the girls' carnage in the spare bedroom; Blair pointedly locking the bathroom door on her side, Serena knocking to get their votes on which pair of shoes she should wear, walking fawnlike in uneven heel heights, still in pajama pants rolled to the knee; the hiss of aerosols and Blair's yes, yes, yes when her hair was just the way she wanted it.

The details of this scene blur at the edges; it's an idea suspended in time and circumstance, a mosaic of so many other days, so many other events— when they were something, he knows, they all know, they'll—

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

He reaches for it; holds it, jittering, in his hand, while the scene closes—

–the pop of a cork as they toast around Blair's foyer table—the one where she stood, Blair Who Can Waltz, just two nights ago, blonde and scarred and small in her gray lounge pants—

and clink their glasses, Blair shaking her dark curls, Serena's earrings grazing her collarbones, Nate's bowtie needing a tweak, which it will get in the car—

the light low, the hour late and the sips hurried, because Serena is never, never ready on time.

He smiles, the spinning coin of Now and If—dark curls and blonde waves, spikes and socks, four full flutes and one pink peony—touching him so viscerally that a chill runs down his spine, and flips his phone open.

v.

Earlier

Nate answers on the first ring; Chuck, still slightly bleary and standing in pajamas and robe at his kitchen counter, realizes he hasn't used his voice yet, and clears his throat.

"How are things at the Archibald townhouse this morning?" he asks, watching the stream of espresso slow to a drip, the ripples lapping at the rim of his cup.

There's a silence.

Chuck glances down, in the direction of his phone.

"Kind of sad," Nate says, hesitant, after a minute. "My mom has been really quiet about this whole Gala, but I mean… it's really the first big event since—everything with my dad."

Another silence.

"I don't think she feels great about it. She was invited—she chose not to go," he adds, hurriedly, "but… I'm not sure that's because she didn't want to."

Chuck picks up his espresso cup and moves to the window, blowing the steam from the surface: more ripples.

"It's not too late," Chuck says, although it probably is. They're weird about seating charts at benefits.

"Maybe not in that way," Nate replies, taking the comment literally, "but that whole life for her is just… over."

No way to argue with that.

He takes a sip. "Well—any photographers around?"

Nate smirks; he can hear it in his voice. "Not yet," he says, with the confident air of a man who's spent his life stalked by paparazzi, "but the day's young."

"Do you want to come get ready here?" he asks. "If you leave before anyone gets there, and then come with us in the limo—"

He stops when he hears a short sigh: resignation.

"I don't want to complicate your whole… arrival." He can almost hear Nate's vague hand motion. "I'm already like a goldfish with people tapping on my glass. It's contagious."

"Humphrey will be with us, so it's not just a family thing," he points out. (That should be fun, he thinks tiredly, wondering if he should check on Serena while he's at it and quickly deciding he'll find an excuse not to.)

"It's fine," Nate says with finality. "I'll figure something out. Thanks for the offer."

vi.

Late afternoon

Chuck watches as his best friend since they were five years old approaches the red carpet, through a mixed crowd of style correspondents, paparazzi and legitimate broadcast journalists whose enthusiasm is at near-riot levels, set to a chorus of Mister Archibald and embezzlement and mother and, above all, BlairBlairBlair, without any discernible look on his handsome face, and he thinks that Nate is either extremely calm or about to curb-stomp someone on the Met steps.

In the background, Bart makes a disapproving comment about how these people don't respect personal space.

Nate's hair is combed back, same as Chuck's, and his eyes look… resigned. He's trying his best to hurry up the block, but by now most of the party has moved to meet him, rushing him like a politician on the steps of City Hall and walking along with him, jostling for position, boom microphones deliberately knocking one another out of the way. It doesn't matter. Nate isn't saying anything.

The paparazzi have come with him, and now enter the general media melee in front of the Met, mixing, in their ready-to-stalk-through-the-bushes street clothes—cargo pants and jackets with too many pockets—with the pinstripes of journalists and careful coifs of stylistas, by far the least-mannered of the three groups. They're practically hanging on him, all talking at once.

There's a dull flapping noise behind Chuck, like a girl's hair blowing in the wind while she leans close in a speeding '56 Roadster (not that he'd know), and he looks over his shoulder to see that the heavy red curtains at the entrance to the Met are being opened, by some behind-the-scenes pulley, and a row of security guards files out and straight down the steps. They seem to have prepared for exactly this scenario, and go to work securing a perimeter around the red carpet, corralling anyone without a visible press badge off to the side.

It helps, but only a little. There's no way to make them leave or behave appropriately, and the temperature of the whole crowd has spiked in the last few minutes.

And so Nate, slack-shouldered, following a muffled suggestion by one of the security guards (they're clearly on his side), steps onto the red carpet, crisp cummerbund and slicked hair and the wingtip collar that Chuck chose: all by himself.

The flashbulbs never let up.

Is your mother coming, Nate?

Mr. Archibald, do you have any comments about your father's—

Nate! Where's Blair?

He looks into the lenses of the photographers who just want to capture his portrait on the red carpet, the civilized ones who always attend society events and never shout.

Nate, give us a smile, fer Chrissake!

What's wrong, Nate?

Where's your girlfriend, Archibald?

Chuck swallows.

All at once, without looking around or at anything in particular, Nate laughs. He snorts like he can't hold it in, and looks momentarily horrified at his manners, and flattens his expression back out.

What's funny, Nate? Is that funny to you?

Chuck wonders: Doesn't this guy read Page Six…?

But Nate starts laughing again, and dips his head, clapping one hand sideways over his mouth.

Chuck takes a step down, without even knowing what he's going to do, but all at once Lily glides past him. She breezes down the steps—Nate is now pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to regain composure, eyes squeezed shut; several cameramen are crouching to capture him on an upward angle—like there's no hurry, not a care in the world; like she just happens to be walking down the Met steps.

He doesn't hear, above the din, what she says to part the jumble of photographers, but one takes note of her and is then nudging others out of the way, and soon the entire crowd splits for her and she doesn't even have to hold up her skirt.

"Nathaniel!" she calls as she approaches Nate's spot on the red carpet, and he looks up, then around, skittish, like he doesn't want to drag her into this.

"Mrs. Van Der Woodsen—"

"My dear, your collar needs to be straightened," she tells him, loud enough for the closest to hear, as the crowd quiets down, every ear straining their direction. "You must have rumpled it on the way over. May I?"

Nate drops both hands to his sides. "Please."

She steps in front of him, shielding him from the photographers directly in front, and makes eye contact for a few long, steady seconds, smoothing the invisible wrinkle in the wingtip. She clears her throat just loudly enough for him to hear. Then she drops her eyes back to the collar and turns, getting out of the way, announcing, half- to Nate, half- to the crowd: "There, much better!"

"Thank you," Nate says, smiling a grateful smile down at her.

"You're still sitting at our table with us, aren't you?"

The dazzling Prince Nate smile widens. "Only if I'm still invited."

"Oh, don't be silly," she tuts. "And would you mind escorting me in? Now I've gotten separated from Bart, I'll need an arm to lean on."

"I'd be honored." He proffers his.

"Excuse us, please, that will be all for tonight," Lily calls as they move toward the steps, in a voice that leaves no room for argument.

On the way up, halfway to the rest of the family, he says, without leaning down: "I really thought walking would be the most discreet."

Lily snorts, contained in her throat, eyes on the stone. "Did you learn your lesson?"

Nate squeezes her hand.

vii.

Bart, learning again to be a society husband (hopefully it will be like riding a bike), has caught on and offered his arm to Serena, who takes it and leads the group with him.

The red curtains whisked shut after security came out, and now they glide open again, a combination of parting horizontally and peeling up on a diagonal, like stage curtains. The process takes several seconds, and it's a spectacle, all that rich velvet folding onto itself. Lily and Nate catch up to the rest of the group – Bart turns and shakes Nate's hand with his free arm; Serena smiles hesitantly; Chuck points to the lapel flower pinned to his own tuxedo and then at Nate, mouthing yours. Nate smiles and Lily, catching the glance, tells Nate that obviously Charles couldn't be photographed carrying a corsage box.

Nate's brow wrinkles. "Oh, my God. Of course not."

"She made him put it on in the limo," Erik adds.

"'Made' is a strong word," Lily comments.

"Suggested," Nate substitutes, as the curtains settle into place, fully open, their entry into the foyer clear.

"Moment of truth," Chuck says drily to Lily.

"Stop it, Charles," she hisses back.

Nate glances back and forth. "What?"

Lily sighs. "Nathaniel, you will never believe what I've gone through today."

Erik turns as Bart and Serena step through the entrance. "This morning, shortly after seven, she got a phone call from the construction manager for the ceiling art installation for tonight—"

"Yes, you please tell it," Lily jokes with a good-natured eyeroll.

"I will. I've heard it, like, four times." Erik starts into the foyer. "So. They couldn't reach the Chair of Decorations, Lauren—"

"Laura," Lily corrects, a little triumphantly.

"Laura," Erik enunciates. "And so they called my mother, because… obviously."

"Obviously," Nate agrees, as they cross the entryway and the ceiling begins to open above them.

"In case you were wondering, she's the only reliable member of the Special Events Committee," Erik clarifies.

Chuck leans in. "Not that that's surprising."

"Did the two of you rehearse this?" Lily asks, throwing up her hand in mock incredulity, eyes crinkled. Serena looks over her shoulder, chuckling; even Bart has a genuine smile.

There's something oddly comforting about the image: a man in a hard hat drinking coffee from a cardboard to-go cup, ringing Lily Van Der Woodsen at seven o'clock on the morning of the Gala, tapping a nervous foot while he waits for her to answer – and something even more comforting about telling this story for the fifth time today (Erik, Serena, and Bart, before they even left the Van Der Woodsen suite; then Charles in the limo) like it's the worst thing anyone has to think about today.

They're under the ceiling now, and Serena turns, a loose blonde wisp grazing her neck, and says to Nate: "So the guy's like, 'Mrs. Van Der Woodsen, we're sorry to bother you so early, but we've started work on the foyer ceiling, and well…'"

She trails off and gestures above their heads.

They all look up.

There's a moment of silence, and then a deep, exaggerated sigh by Lily.

"The black gauze roses are drooping," she finishes, hopelessly.

The curtain closes behind them.

viii.

The Met Gala coverage drones on after Nate disappears from the red carpet; one camera swivels above the heads of the crowd to watch him disappear up the steps with Lily Van Der Woodsen on his arm, and there, in the background: Bart Bass, steady and tall in classic black tails, an unmistakable blonde at his elbow, and the two Bass Der Woodsen boys to his left.

The collective hum of New York City bloggers' keystrokes can is nearly audible.

"Well, I think it's safe to say," one correspondent tells the camera conspiratorially, "Anne Vanderbilt-Archibald, wife of disgraced financier Howard 'The Captain' Archibald, will not be attending tonight. Now, it was rumored that Mrs. Archibald, a mainstay of Manhattan society, had quietly resigned her position as a member of the Metropolitan Museum of Art Special Events Committee in December; however, it was not publicly confirmed whether she would attend the Gala…"

A pair of photos of Anne and Howard smiling, arm in arm: one with Anne in a tea-length dress, gloves and a hat, in the Botanical Gardens; the other in white tie.

Then, one more, full screen, with Nate to one side, leaning over his mother. Less formal. A family snapshot on the beach, probably the house in the Hamptons.

Back to the correspondent. "This is one family that's been through a lot in the recent months, with Nate, the only child of Anne and Howard, apparently struggling with the Captain's indictment, and more recently, the tragic assault on longtime girlfriend Blair Waldorf."

The Snowflake Ball picture, kissing the back of her hand—and then the basketball court.

"Naturally, many of us here on the ground are wondering what it means that Nate Archibald has made a solo entrance at the Gala, and speculation remains whether Blair Waldorf will brave the crowds to make her re-debut into society, which is eager for her return—"

Blair closes her laptop and pushes it away.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers to Nate, face sinking into her hands. She didn't even realize how hard she was crying, and she immediately sets to work blotting tears off her neck and jawline.

In spite of everything, she thinks as she mops her cheeks with her sleeves, it's not fair that he has to relive all this because of her. And he could put a stop to it at any moment by simply telling the media that, actually, they broke up months ago.

Yes, there would still be heightened interest in the Archibalds due to the Captain's dirty laundry, but Blair is soberly aware that Nate could flip the switch on the paparazzi at any moment, and save himself the trouble, by issuing a statement to that effect. But he doesn't. He bears it for her, because she asked him to, and because he's a gentleman, and because he knows it would make things worse for her, and because he loved her once and she loved him too.

Blair is sitting, one leg bent sideways and tucked carefully underneath her, on the foot of her bed. She's wearing her white robe from The Palace, the one Chuck brought her in the hospital that first day, the one she wore home in the towncar underneath her father's topcoat.

The window is open, and a mild, floaty breeze has been toying with her hair all afternoon.

Her hair that Dorota curled while she drank coffee at noon.

She was wearing this robe the last time she was anywhere but her penthouse, the last time she tasted fresh air. Today, the cool blast hit her in the face when she opened her window, for the first time all winter, and skipped over her shoulder to ruffle the pink folds of the gown her mother made for her. It's hanging, alone, from the open door to her closet.

Dr. Genove told her she couldn't control everything, and she's been reminding herself about that all day.

She watched Nate on the red carpet with a sharpening sense of dread in her stomach. She never would have thought it would be like that for him.

She realizes her hands are shaking, hard, like when she doesn't eat all day but has six espressos to perk herself up before an exam. She eases herself up, one hand bracing on the mattress, and crosses her whitewashed room to the open window and stands there, breeze teasing the sash of her robe and drying the pale tear-tracks on her cheeks.

Her tongue moves inside her closed mouth, between her clenched teeth: I can control this.

She swallows her tears and shuts the window, and calls Dorota upstairs to put the gown away and draw her a bubble bath.

In the gears and conductors of her closed laptop, the red carpet coverage goes on for another forty minutes, until well after the Gala dinner has started and any chance of a fashionably-late arrival is exhausted. The correspondent signs off with a tour of the Gala's foyer, cleared now of socialites and draped sumptuously in black and red, and a recap of the night's highlights: "Bass-Van-Der-Woodsens: The new age of New York royalty"; "the end of the Archibalds?"; and the conspicuous absence of Blair Waldorf, "daughter of Eleanor and Harold Waldorf, a premier deb, rising fashion icon and society darling."

The online countdowns have expired by the end of the broadcast, their links disabled.

The pages housing the polls on Blair's attendance odds and likely gown color are wiped soon after, with replacement headlines swapped in:

Where's Waldorf?

If She Would Have Gone…

Waldorf Watch, The Sequel: Next Society Event Spotlight

Blair slides up to her neck in the bubbles, leaning her head back, knees bent, and breathes.

ix.

The opening toast, thanking everyone for their patronage, is delivered by—well, no one quite catches his name—the director of the recipient organization of tonight's event. It has something to do with either conservation or stem cell research.

"Cheers," says Bart, clinking and making eye contact with his fiancée, and reaching for her hand under the table as black-clad waiters approach to start the first course.

"It looks incredible in here, Mom." This from Serena, who is genuinely wide-eyed at the transformation in the open gallery. Her chair faces the center of the room, her back to the wall of windows and with an expansive view of the elevated glass flooring, for which, mercifully, the Committee was able to procure enough black votives to achieve the desired effect. The glass panes that make up the flooring are beveled at the edge, kaleidoscoping the lights of the flames underneath: a swarm of ten thousand fireflies, a sea of stylish fire.

Bart leans over to ask if Erik wants a splash of wine with his pasta, and Nate, seated directly at Lily's left, touches her hand and thanks her quietly for "saving me out there." He glances down. "And in here."

"Thank you for being a wonderful young man," she replies just as quietly, before Bart finishes with Erik.

Serena watches this exchange out of the corner of her eye, three seats away, and notes the small dark spots that materialize on Nate's cheekbones.

x.

After dinner—seven small courses that seem incredibly inadequate when viewed separately—Bart and Lily are among the first on the dance floor when the Philharmonic ensemble starts the dancing with a spirited rendition of Come Fly Away. They're back after one turn, barely enough time for the three boys at the table to get Nate's corsage pinned on correctly while Serena watches in amusement; it's too early in the evening to consider breaking a sweat.

No sooner does Lily reappear at the table, a little glow on her cheeks, than a classmate from Brown approaches: a rugged, blue-eyed athletic type, with dignified wire-rimmed glasses: a linebacker refined and nearsighted by many subsequent years indoors. He reaches for her hand and kisses it exaggeratedly, congratulating her on the news, gesturing at Bart and asking if "this" is "the lucky man?" (As if anyone at this event doesn't know Bart Bass by sight.)

"Indeed he is," Lily affirms, hand clasping Bart's shoulder while they shake. "Bart Bass, meet Ignacio Ortuno."

"Please, call me 'Iggy,'" the broad-shouldered man says.

Bart blinks. "'Iggy'?" He looks like he has difficulty forming the word, or matching it with the person standing in front of him.

"Short for 'Ignacio.'" Iggy shrugs. "Old football nickname. I can't shake it."

"Not like you've tried," Lily says good-naturedly. "You remember Erik and Serena?" The two blondes, accustomed to a large amount of motherly re-introductions at these events, are already on their feet.

And then, as though it's the most natural thing in the world, Bart gestures toward Chuck and says, "and my son, Charles Bass."

Chuck gets up hastily, having forgotten he's well and truly part of this family unit.

"Great to meet you," he says to Iggy.

"Iggy runs a very successful venture capitalist boutique in Silicon Valley." Lily directs this to the Basses, though it doesn't appear to ring any particular bell with her children either.

"Not Ortuno Partners?" Bart looks at Iggy with new interest.

Iggy smiles. "The same!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Chuck notices Nate, still seated—Serena and Erik sat right back down, Chuck realizes, and follows suit—smile to himself, just a little. He knows why. Iggy's affect is very similar to that of the Captain: same easygoing face, same roughhousing energy. (Hopefully no coke problem here, though.)

Bart turns to Chuck. "Do you remember who brought up Ortuno Partners in the board meeting? Someone said their new research associate had interned there."

"Yes," Chuck says, twitching in his chair, unsure whether he's meant to stand up again to answer the question. "It was the gentleman across the table, with the—" Chuck waves a hand above his head, indicating messy hair.

Those types of details are not Bart's strong suit. "I can't place him."

"McCaffrey," Chuck supplies, a little too urgently and with a hint of triumph, the instant the name comes to him. "The associate started right before Christmas."

"Not enough time to make a mark," Iggy says generously. "But if we trained him, I promise you won't be disappointed." He directs this at Bart, who's trying his best to mirror the man's easygoing smile, then turns to Chuck. "You work with your father?"

"I'm—not—"

Bart cuts in. "He's still in high school, but he's been getting involved with the business, attending a few meetings, studying prospecti. Has a strong eye for detail."

Chuck waits for Bart to name one of his weaknesses as a counterpoint, but instead, his father reaches for his water glass. That's the end of the statement.

A terrifying flutter beats through Chuck's stomach.

"Really." Iggy looks back at Chuck with sharper interest. "Do you have plans this summer?"

"This summer?"

He feels Serena's gaze flick over to him.

"We have a junior intern program for exceptional high school students—" Iggy begins.

Bart cuts him off with a good-natured half-smile. "It just so happens I have summer plans for Charles already," he says, "and they don't involve…" he waves a hand. "Collating equity research reports, or whatever you'd have him doing."

Iggy laughs out loud. "Now, wait a minute," he protests. "I don't push scut work off on promising young minds. I'd have him researching prospects, reviewing due diligence materials from founders, working with directors on quant evals, that sort of thing."

Bart opens his mouth, but Chuck, heart soaring, raises his water glass in an interruptive gesture. "I'll be the first to admit, I'm not a quant," he says, "but have you talked with Erik about his work? He won an upperclassman award from the Mathematical Society last fall. He's only a freshman," he adds for emphasis.

Every head at the table swivels to Erik, who's wide-eyed.

"I didn't know you knew about that," he says to Chuck.

"It was in the newsletter," Chuck says, as if this explains everything.

"Wow," Iggy says. "What was the project?"

Erik shifts in his seat. "Uh—nothing too crazy. Not pure theory or anything, just applied math. I studied the trends of Ivy League acceptances from different socioeconomic levels, trending over the past five years, cross-referenced with GDP growth. And SAT score by category." His cheeks are red. "And, uh, gender split, which I was able to compare with birth rates by gender for the years the matriculating classes would have been born, to kind of get a sense of who went where, when, and part of the 'why.'"

"Oh, that's it?" Nate deadpans.

Chuck hides a smirk. "And, uh," he says, like he's trying to remember, "didn't you actually do that project when you were in, like, eighth grade, and the headmaster held it back to submit in the upperclassmen category? …Or something?"

(It would have been smoother if someone else said this part, but he's flying solo tonight, so he has to work double-duty.)

"Seventh and eighth," Erik says, and takes a sip of ice water, cheeks pink.

Iggy turns on Lily, who's watching the scene with proud eyes, absently fingering the delicate necklace at her throat. "Lily Van Der Woodsen, how dare you not tell me your son's a quant genius?"

Now Lily stammers. "Well, I'm—"

"I'm not a genius," Erik says, shaking his head.

"I'm—very proud of him," Lily finishes.

Nate grins at Erik. "I barely understood what you said, so I'd say, yeah, you're a genius."

"That's impressive work, Erik," Bart agrees earnestly.

Chuck barely hears Serena, even though she's right next to him, as she murmurs to Erik under her breath: "Why didn't you tell me more about this?"

Erik hesitates, then whispers, somewhat apologetically, that it was mostly while she was away. Serena goes quiet.

Iggy is beaming at Erik. "Well. This is my lucky night. Do you have a card?"

He asks this with no irony; Erik blinks and grins, shaking his head. "I'm, like, nine," he jokes apologetically, and Iggy snorts; this earns a laugh even from Bart.

"Let me take your number, then. I'd love to see that project. What are you doing this summer?" He glances up over his glasses as he flips open his phone, and jerks his head in Lily's direction. "Think we can convince your mother to let you come to California?"

The rest of the table tenses imperceptibly, but Lily's shoulders don't so much as stiffen. She's beaming at Erik, too. "I think we can definitely talk about that, if it's something Erik wants," she says, with a slight nod at her son.

Erik grins and accepts the open phone Iggy extends to him over the table, inputting his contact information. He hands it back, and Iggy makes him shake on it that they'll talk next week.

While Bart and Lily are bidding Iggy farewell, Serena rattles her ice softly, raising her glass. "To my brother, 'Baby Erik,' the venture capitalist," she says just loudly enough for the boys to hear.

"Here, here," Nate agrees. Chuck clinks with Erik last, the Van Der Woodsen cheeks still mottled a fading pink, and winks at him.

xi.

Nate waits until they're alone at the table—Serena clearly doesn't feel like socializing, and Chuck and Erik have gone to check out the bar—and turns to her.

"No date tonight?" he asks, elbows on the table, Chuck's empty seat between them.

She blinks, visibly pulling herself from her thoughts. She pulls a polite mouth-only smile. "No."

Nate nods slowly as she goes back to studying her nails (freshly manicured and not offering much in the way of distraction, but they'll do).

A minute later, he clears his throat. She looks up. He tilts his head at the elevated glass floor.

"How 'bout it?"

Serena looks at the pairs already up there. "I'm okay," she says with a shrug.

"Come on, I insist. You're dressed to the nines. You can't sit quietly all night."

He pushes back his chair and offers her his hand. With a chagrinned half-smile, she takes it.

xii.

Across the floor, Penelope, in a plain slip gown with her hair straightened, a look she knows Blair would disapprove of (and would scold her for if she were here), is hanging behind a pillar while her father takes photos with his second wife and their children at their table, Penelope's half-empty champagne flute subtly pushed to one side so it doesn't appear like anyone was left out of the family portrait.

Whatever. She doesn't care.

More time to people-watch.

She rounds to the other side of the pillar, on the far side of the hall from the wall of windows, as the familiar first strands of At Last fill the air. She smiles—she loves this song—and leans against the pillar, mostly in shadow.

The smile twitches and slackens a little when she spots Serena carefully climbing the stairs onto the glass floor, her hand in Nate's, some fifty feet away. Not in jealousy; just curiosity.

Her family arrived to the Met just before the Bass-Van Der Woodsen clan, and Penelope, admiring the foyer centerpiece of individual black roses mounted on spikes, stopped to watch as a cluster of security guards rushed out the front entrance. She told her father and stepmother to go on without her, and found her way to one huge plate-glass window facing the street, where she stood next to the quiet man whose job it is to operate the curtains. The man was watching, too, and shook his head at the pushy tangle of paparazzi. Penelope was about to head into the Great Hall when the bodies parted and she saw Nate, stone-faced, alone on the red carpet.

A sadness washed over her then, and she glanced down at her plain, straight-cut emerald gown, realizing, for reasons she didn't fully understand, that something about this moment meant that Blair was not going to come.

Now she looks at perfect, perfect Nate and show-stopping Serena—the way the blonde does a half-hearted little twirl before they pair up to sway to Etta James, and the furthest corner of Nate's mouth twitches as he leans forward and reaches for her waist to draw her smoothly in, and Serena's shoulders raise and relax as she slides her arms up around his neck, so absolutely easy together—and she thinks they're probably the only two people here who are sadder than she is.

Serena is saying something to Nate, having to tilt her head up a little because Nate is taller than she is, even in those towering heels, and for a moment it looks like their foreheads are about to touch. As the music shifts, Serena tilts her head to one side and Nate reaches up, apparently smoothing a stray hair behind her ear, although it's too far away to see.

Penelope's heart thuds.

Serena's fingers drift down to his lapel, there they ruffle a flower corsage that's pinned there. The way Nate looks down at her fingers, then back up at her, and says something low—she can tell because his lips are barely moving, which means he's talking under his breath; Blair is a master at reading this sort of thing—

And her heart thuds again.

She looks away, suddenly feeling like she's caught a couple in bed. It's clear, watching the two of them, that Nate loves her. Whether or not either of them knows it is a different question.

And isn't this probably the first-ever gala or benefit where these two would be slow-dancing, with no Blair in attendance?

Yet this is definitely nothing new.

She turns her gaze back to the pair. Nate is shrugging, looking more serious, then a sad smile. Serena frowns, too, and lays her head on his shoulder. Nate blinks a few times, in rapid succession, and then closes his eyes for a moment in what appears to be relief, or comfort; either way, peace.

In the same abstract way that she realized before, in the foyer, that Blair would not be here tonight, another thought pieces itself together in her mind: God. Poor Blair.

Just as she's doing the math—how long ago was Blair back with Nate, and how long was Serena away; what month did she get back—could it have been while they were broken up the first time?—

There's a footstep behind her.

"Excuse me," a pleasant, older male voice says.

She turns, an apology ready on her lips, thinking someone wants her to move. She's used to being in the way at home.

The voice belongs to a tall man, late in the balding process, with close-cropped wispy hair, a kind oval face, and eyes a little too close together, the bridge of his nose so slim that it's impossible to imagine that standard-issue glasses would stay in place; so that he looks, charmingly, like the middle part of his face was pinched just a little too tight.

She's standing next to the pillar, and starts to smile and flatten herself against it to let him by.

But he holds out his hand.

"Are you Penelope Shafai?"

xiii.

Erik, at his elbow, swirls his Pellegrino on the rocks, in that way he and his sister have. They must have learned it from Lily.

"Well, he seems to feel better," Erik says drily.

Chuck smirks. They're not speaking, but Nate does look perfectly at ease with Serena, and vice versa, which is frankly a little surprising given the way they've both been acting.

Just then, Lily spots them through the crowd and calls, at an appropriate indoor volume, "Erik, Charles!" and waves them over. They weave toward her single-file, Chuck glancing sideways at the elevated floor the whole way. Serena, adjusting her head on Nate's shoulder, catches him looking at one point. He flashes a quick smile that conveys something like take what we can get, eh, and looks away, like he's giving them privacy.

By the time they reach Bart and Lily—who, Chuck thinks, look excellent together, and play off each other well in public, with a surprising amount of tenderness between them; he's never seen Bart like this, not even in the same universe—his father is looking for them too. "There you are," he says.

"Sorry," Erik replies, uncharacteristically piping up first. "We were thirsty."

Maybe the 'quant genius' accolade has boosted his confidence, Chuck thinks.

"Charles Bass and Erik Van Der Woodsen," Lily starts, and gestures at the second of three couples in their circle, "this is Cecelia and Scott Trexler. Newlyweds," she adds with a tilt of the head.

"I think we're too old to qualify for that," Cecelia laughs, but nonetheless brandishes her ring hand. "We were both in residency in Cambridge—comparative literature at Harvard, robotics at MIT." She gestures at her husband first, then herself. "We were just married on New Year's Eve."

"Congratulations," Chuck smiles.

"Wow," Erik agrees. "Was it a small wedding, or big?"

Non-Newlywed Cecelia does not need much encouragement to provide a bright-eyed recap of their holiday nuptials, but both bride and groom, probably in their mid-fifties, are as giddy as teenagers, and Chuck finds himself grinning along with her, as does the rest of their cluster.

After a few minutes, Cecelia abruptly cuts herself off with a huff. "Ugh, sorry," she says. "I'll be showing you the photos next."

Her groom speaks for the first time as she rolls her eyes at herself. "And I'm the one who works in literature," he adds drily, and holds up his glass teasingly. "Cheers?"

"To the very happy, and very lucky, couple," Bart agrees, his tone sober but warm. He takes a sip and gestures at the couple to Chuck's right while he swallows.

"And, again, Charles Bass and Erik Van Der Woodsen—"

Just then, the romantic conclusion of At Last winds down, the last note overlapping with the telltale four cymbal-taps that kick off a spirited version of New York, New York.

Chuck and Erik, looking at the couple, miss what Bart says under the sudden explosion.

"Sorry, I didn't catch—?" Chuck leans forward.

"Imogene and Jonathan," says the woman, smiling, and reaching forward to shake his hand.

"Nice to meet you," says Erik, shaking after Chuck.

"I haven't seen you two together in ages," Bart says, squinting. "When was the last time?"

Jonathan and his wife exchange a glance and begin, in the habit of a couple together much longer than any other in this circle, conferring about work schedules of yesteryear.

"I was in Beijing most of last summer," Jonathan says.

Imogene nods. "True. And we went to Antigua last—was it May?" She's glancing around like she sees someone she knows, and reaches behind her husband as she speaks.

"That was our only break, between that and the Baskerville matter." Jonathan pronounces Baskerville like he's allergic to the word.

"We're going to Antigua on Monday," Lily says brightly. "I've never been."

"Nor I," Bart adds.

"How did you find it?"

Jonathan makes a French-chef air-kissing motion. "Perfection. I mean, really, you couldn't ask for more." He smiles at them as Imogene leans around him. "You'll enjoy yourselves and come home transformed."

"What do you do?" Chuck asks.

"I'm an attorney, specializing in M&A," says Imogene, then nods at Bart. "I manage a lot of your father's deals."

A muffled ringing goes off somewhere in Chuck's mind.

"She's the best in the business," Bart adds.

Jonathan says what he does, but Chuck doesn't hear it. Imogene tilts her head and looks behind her husband's shoulders, extending one arm, then steps carefully sideways, taking care not to bump into anyone, as a blonde exactly her height emerges between Imogene and Jonathan, arm linked with Imogene. Her head is tilted toward Imogene, whispering in her ear while Jonathan's voice floats wordlessly in Chuck's ears, and her blonde hair—short, not even shoulder-length, curled at the ends and temples and brushed out like spun gold—is shielding her face, but Chuck doesn't need to wait for her to look up.

She's holding a half-empty champagne flute effortlessly between the fingers of her free hand.

Jonathan finishes speaking—truthfully, Chuck could not repeat what the man does to save his life—and his tone comes back into focus.

"And this is our daughter, Cadence."

Cadence looks up and smiles a brilliant smile: red lipstick, blue eyes.

"Hi," she says.

xiv.

Chuck's throat sticks. He swallows and smiles. "Hi—"

"We met at your father's Labor Day party last year, I believe?" She transfers the champagne flute to the hand that's linked with her mother's arm and extends to shake.

He remembers, on the east side of Madison that night, stopping to watch Blair breathing out on the other corner, resolving to go after her, and then—

Her fingers are freezing. "Cadence Alexander."

Hi, you.

"Right, of course. Chuck Bass," he says flatly. "A pleasure to see you again."

She moves right on. "Erik Van Der Woodsen, right?—"

She's in black, a Zang Toi if he had to guess, strapless, a very rich velvet with a cluster of crystals at the top of one side of the sweetheart neckline and another cluster on the opposite side of the waist, and straight diamond earrings dangling to the tops of her shoulders, longer than her hair. She's wearing black gloves to the elbow. She looks like she stepped out of a vintage film: Monte Carlo in the 1940s, Paris in the 1920s.

He keys into Lily's comments that Cadence has been such a tremendous help on the Gala Special Events Committee, how impressive it is that she's able to balance so much with her coursework.

"She's our most impressive junior member," Lily says confidentially, leaning in, and the entire group leans with her. "But don't tell the others."

Cadence laughs modestly. "I'm not sure about the most impressive, but I'm just glad we got through that awkward moment when Jennifer confused Diana over there with Cupid." She nods, and everyone looks at the Diana statue in question: just one table away from the Bass Der Woodsens', with the promised Hermes silk heart affixed to the end of her arrow, which Cadence's co-junior-committee-member, Jennifer, referred to as Cupid a few weeks ago.

Lily tells the story. "And Cadence's face was priceless," she says, chuckling into her palm. "The poor thing hadn't the foggiest idea, so Cadence had to write her a note and slip it over, very discreetly."

"What did the note say?" asks Cecelia.

Cadence shrugs. "Just 'that statue is Diana.' Poor Jennifer. She turned beet red, right there in the middle of the agenda."

Lily looks sympathetic. "Oh, did she? I didn't even see."

"She was so embarrassed," Cadence nods. "But better to tell her than risk her saying it again."

"She'll be laughing about it in a few months," Imogene decides, and the rest of the group agrees, so that settles that.

"Speaking of a few months," Bart says to Imogene, "since Thanksgiving, I feel like your name is everywhere I look. Your calendar must be all interviews and 'Most Powerful Women in New York' photo shoots. Do you even work anymore?" he teases.

She scoffs. "That is work," she tells him. "Oh, and speaking of interviews, how did—" she stalls and recovers, "JazzCo go this week?"

JazzCo is an obvious code name for some deal they must have in the works. Bart replies that it was satisfactory, "but, you remember the two potential issues we discussed beforehand—so, as it turns out, the first one—"

They lapse into a rapid, code-word-addled conversation designed to sound interesting while giving nothing away. Chuck has heard this sort of thing a thousand times. Cadence has, apparently, too, since she also glazes over the second her mother says JazzCo.

Nate approaches on the other side of Erik and circles around Bart to reach Lily. She greets him quietly; Bart stops to apologize for talking about work; "no, no, by all means," Lily assures him.

Bart's speech is more fluid when talking in code than it is in normal conversation, like a man switching into his native tongue from a well-educated fluency in another, secondary, language. There's a relaxation in his posture, too, like a few hours gladhanding the arrivistes of New York society has wound him up and talking business is his recess. Lily stands beside him, unperturbed.

Chuck is stealing glances at Cadence, who's standing at a slight angle but nearly facing him, her father between them. The last time they stood looking at each other was when he ignored Serena's call and shut down his phone, the screen illuminating as it died: 10:43 PM.

He realizes he walked right past her building last night—literally, right past her lobby door, the one he exited through the night of the Park—on the way home from Blair's in the rain, and she didn't even cross his mind.

"What do you have there?" Nate asks Lily quietly. "Let me freshen that for you."

"You're an angel," she replies, handing over her glass. "Thank you."

Nate hesitates, then speaks to Bart, whose glass is nearly empty. "Can I get you anything, sir?"

Bart looks down like he forgot he was holding a glass. "Um—no, thank you, Nathaniel." Then, again over his shoulder as Nate retreats: "Thank you."

Imogene takes advantage of his pause. "I was thinking—remember what happened with Windmill?—we also need to consider—"

Cadence catches him looking, and gives a polite smile, then goes back to pretend-listening to her mother like a dutiful daughter.

His stomach grinds a little. He owes her an apology. Cadence is a good girl, a classy girl. He remembers her smiling, asking about his college plans and whether he'll follow in Bart's footsteps, laughing at his jokes. She was comfortable in his presence. Their parents work together and that's the entire reason they know each other. There are rules for whom he can and can't do things like that with, and he knew better. He remembers then that he planned to send flowers, or something—some gesture—not just slip away like a coward. Granted, that was before he paused beside the footpath into the Park that night, but that doesn't change what came before.

He dislikes the thought of her waking up in that storm and finding him gone. Not to mention his father would hate it.

Nate is back quickly, excuse-me-ing around another cluster of people behind them, one of whom looks over her shoulder and watches him for a long moment. People have been doing that all night.

One woman, a friend of Nate's mother's—in Chuck's eyes, she could be Anne's sister, for how similarly they present themselves—rested a simpering hand on Nate's arm on the way to finding their seats for dinner, interrupting Chuck and Nate's conversation, and asked, "how is she?" without clarifying which woman she meant, leaving him to come up with an appropriate common-denominator response while Chuck slid away, not wanting to deal with their mutual tension around Nate having to answer for Blair in front of him.

"We should get dinner in a few weeks," Bart is saying, and it takes a moment for Chuck to realize he's including him as part of the we: the Alexanders, Lily, and their children.

Jonathan nods in agreement. "Absolutely."

"I'd love to," Lily agrees. "Shall we ask Ellen to coordinate?"

"Just forward me the invite," Cadence says to Imogene, "I'll be there."

He waits for a twitch, a side-eye, a moment of eye contact that says I'll deal with you later, anything.

"Same," Chuck tells his father, somewhat weakly. "Name the time and place."

"After we get back from—"

"So sorry to interrupt," Cadence interjects, "but I've just spotted the head of my department at Columbia right over there, and I'm trying to get a TA role next year. I need to go campaign." She flashes an apologetic smile at the group. "Lovely to meet you." To him: "Great to see you again."

"She's a force," Lily says after Cadence is gone.

"She's had a rough few months—an intense workload at school," Imogene says, a surprising level of frankness in mixed company. "I worry she's taking on too much, truthfully."

"That's our job," Lily agrees, reaching for Bart's arm and clasping her fingers in his elbow. "To worry."

Bart's face is blank for a moment before he realizes what she's saying: Parents worry. He glances at Chuck, and his eyes linger with that searching look that Chuck first saw the morning after the board meeting.

Cecelia pipes up to ask what activities they're planning to do while they're in Antigua: horse-riding on the beach, perhaps?

xv.

Nate has fetched himself a drink—a whisky sour, a sudden craving—and is making his way back to the Bass Der Woodsen table to take a break, when he suddenly changes course and decides to skirt the room. Alone at the table he'll be a sitting duck, and he doesn't want any more questions about how his poor traumatized girlfriend is, if he can help it.

He settles for a spot on the interior wall, on the far side of the gallery from the wall of windows and underneath the outcropping of the mezzanine above. Giving the slightest tug on his tie to loosen it just a smidge, he sips his sour, eyes roaming the crowd. He hasn't seen Serena since she thanked him for the dance and excused himself, a clear signal that he wasn't invited wherever she was going.

Drooping roses notwithstanding, the Gala is an aesthetic masterpiece, he thinks. The raised glass floor is really something else. One part of his brain asks what the point is, but the other part reminds him that doesn't matter, that this is the way things are: they're all here to wear thousand-dollar outfits to an event that's purportedly for charity, and air-kiss and compliment each other and whisper when someone leaves the cluster about their weight gain or their divorce or their disgraced mother or their reclusive (non)girlfriend.

That's what they're here for.

He takes a long sip and looks up and, though he's in the dimly lit corner and she's at her family's table, several yards and two clusters away, sees Penelope looking at him. She licks her lips and breaks eye contact quickly, looking around as if searching for someone, and then meets his eyes again.

He raises a hand bemusedly, and mouths, "hey."

She starts maneuvering around one of her stepsisters, who's sitting in the chair in front of her—as she moves, he sees that something about her hair looks different than usual, although he's not sure what—and circles their table, making a beeline for him.

Brow wrinkling, he takes a step toward her, not because she's the top person he wants to talk to but because she has an urgent look on her face and, really, because he was an asshole to her last time they spoke about anything personal (that nonsense rumor about Serena doing coke at a fashion show, he bites his jaws remembering) so he's betting she won't bring up anything to irritate him.

But he sees her again, still separated by a flurry of people, and she's standing still, looking somewhere else in the crowd.

He stops. What's her—

"Excuse me," says a man, from the direction of the bar, the direction he wasn't looking.

Nate turns. The man holds up the hand not carrying a fresh drink, an I-come-in-peacegesture. He's taller than Nate, with all of his features bunched closely in the center of his slim face. He looks like an awkward but kindly uncle who wears white calf-high socks and golf shorts. Nate doesn't recognize him at all.

"I'm sorry to disturb you – I'll be quick," he says, still several steps away, with a smile that improves his whole vibe. "I just wanted to introduce myself in person."

Nate stifles a sigh, but it's a gala and there's nothing to be done.

He remembers Penelope, and glances over his shoulder, and she's where he last saw her, watching. She turns away.

He extends his hand.

"Nate Archibald," he says. "Do I know you?"

xvi.

Penelope sits down in an empty chair at their table—her stepsisters keep moving around, so she takes whatever's available—and stays very still for a moment. Then she reaches for the carafe of decaf next to the centerpiece, finding an upside-down teacup and flipping it upright.

"That's mine," Aurora protests.

Penelope suppresses an eyeroll, because this is what thirteen-year-olds are like.

"You aren't going to have coffee," she tells Aurora, keeping her voice even so her stepmother won't freak out.

Aurora pouts for a moment, then loses interest and reaches for Penelope's own cup, which is upright. She peeks in.

"What's in yours?" she asks.

"Paper," Penelope says, pouring.

"I know that." Aurora reaches in.

"Leave it alone," Penelope scolds, then softens her tone. "Please."

"Okay. But what is it?"

Penelope puts the carafe back, willing herself not to look over at the interior wall. "Someone gave me their card," she says with a shrug, like it's the least interesting thing to ever happen. "And I didn't want it."

"So you ripped it up?"

"For their privacy," says Penelope, picking up her cup.

xvii.

If it's possible, the subway sounds even worse when it's empty.

Maybe it's because no one's shouting expletives or singing show tunes, or maybe it's because he's an incubus of uncertainty about this whole move, but he could swear the rattling of the cars against each other and over the connectors that join the track sections together is louder right now than during the morning commute.

Also, it's kind of cold without the enormous crush of bodies, and though the weather is unseasonably warm, given the long walk to and from the subway stations on both ends, he's not sure no-coat was the right decision after all.

But he has his invitation in his hand, addressed to him and guaranteeing him admittance to this thing, without anyone else, and that's what matters.

Not that he's like five hours later than everyone else, and that he's not sure if it will even still be going on at this point, or how these things end; will Serena just, like, walk out onto the street and grab a cab home, or…?

He's had the horrible thought, almost too good and horrible (at the same time) to think, that—well, were she so inclined to do just that, exit the Gala early, hail a cab, and set off for Brooklyn, like she did after the lockdown at The Palace lifted, he wouldn't be there when she called. She'd be standing on the street, shivering in front of the loft, while he stood on the street, shivering in front of the Met, and they'd snort in simultaneous disbelief when they realized their folly, and then, still smiling, she would say, I made a mistake—I love you.

And he would ball his free hand into a fist and press it against his temple and close his eyes and say, I forgive you. I love you, too.

xviii.

Chuck breaks off, at last, from a cluster of society couples—he sees Bart and Lily drifting away from the group, too, in the opposite direction, so he's safe—and ducks into the shadows under the mezzanine, away from the sea of flickering lights and into what feels like safety.

It's no wonder Bart avoids big society events and prefers to just send a check, he thinks idly, sipping his flattening champagne. Generating this amount of polite conversation is exhausting.

Through the corner of one eye, he glimpses a glitter of black and gold, and looks up at the elevated floor to see Cadence gliding across, flute in hand, features set in delight. Her gown, slit demurely to the knee, glows with the refracted candlelight, bringing out the depth of the velvet, the crystals at the waist and neckline. As she reaches her intended party—a man he saw her mother wave to earlier, probably an Alexander family friend—she leans forward, all glow and sparkle, and double-kisses him, flawless in her warmth, free hand resting on his lapel for just the right number of moments.

He watches her for a long moment, remembering her that night; the night that was, ultimately, the last night of his life as he knew it then: the black coat, the pink scarf that she pulled up to cover her hair as it started to rain.

Her knee-high stockings and her little laugh of surprise when he whisked her up.

You mentioned a bedroom?

And tonight, extending her hand, fingers clammy from her champagne flute, telling him her full name like she didn't fall asleep with her back pressed against his bare chest and his arm draped over her naked hip the last time it stormed.

It's a maneuver he's seen before, most recently and artfully with Blair during those fevered weeks, when she'd have her legs around his waist one hour and greet him with no eye contact on the steps the next, like the merest of acquaintances. He did the same with her, tapping out a text that said side entrance, last bell, watching her open it across the courtyard, then passing her and Serena on the way out: Morning, ladies.

The morning after she got the official offer from Night Out With, she called him and, after swearing him up and down that he would not tell a soul, whispered the news in his ear, half-breathless already. Smirking in something that felt dangerously like pride, he drawled back that, perhaps, then, relevant journalism wasn't totally dead.

She laughed, and paused, and asked, can you stop over?

He couldn't: he on his way to the tailor, and had five tuxedo finalists he was test-driving before he had to get to class. I'm really stressed out.

She pouted. I'm thinking about you, she said lightly, barely more than a hum.

Likewise, he told her. Some very specific things.

Like what?

He smirked. Remember when I had you against the wall?

Which time?

He laughed out loud at that. Touché.

The first time, he said, through a residual snicker.

Yes, she whispered, and sighed. I remember.

He already knew, it had become something of a ritual, but confirmed: after rehearsal?

She paused, oddly quiet, traffic creaking around him while he waited for her voice in his ear, and then said, I can't wait until then.

Don't, he said firmly, dropping the T hard into her ear. I'll stay on the line.

And that afternoon, walking to rehearsal with anticipation fluttering in his stomach, a different and equally odd pride coursing through him, and fighting to keep a grin off his face as Nate, befuddledly, described her as lighter, happier. Then, his pulse sharpening, forcing his throat open to say, you don't miss her, man, in a tone he hoped was dismissive enough to convince them both.

The way Cadence looks at this man is the way Blair looked at the Prince that afternoon in rehearsal: delighted to lay eyes on him, like there's no one on earth she'd rather see. Cadence is leaning in to hear, above the din, what her companion is saying in her ear, gaze scanning for someone in the crowd, and Chuck doesn't realize until it's too late that she's going to catch him looking.

Her gaze passes right through him, slides over him, and then stops and flicks back, like a musician missing an easy note and reaching over with a pinky to correct it. She meets his eye for a moment, giving an obligatory smile, and resumes her search. She doesn't come back to him when she finishes her sweep of the hall.

He takes a sip. She's a hell of an actress, he'll give her that. At least she doesn't seem to want to claw his eyes out. Not in public, anyway.

Nonetheless, the thought of sitting through a dinner with her and her parents, and Bart and Lily—possibly with the latter making graceful allusions, seating "the young people" next to each other and so on—makes him want a refill.

He steps further back under the mezzanine, mind shifting to Blair, where he's tried all night not to let it rest fully, although truthfully his father has kept him engaged nonstop since they moved to their tables for dinner at six forty-five. And, even more truthfully, it's been a few hours' respite from the gnawing fatigue of thinking about this whole mess every single moment—not just her, but Nate, and Serena, and photos-for-hire and all the rest—a break he didn't realize he needed, from a situation over which he has exactly no control.

But every time someone says something under their breath, he imagines her micro-expression reacting to it; every time he looks at their table; even, though it's difficult to form the thought cohesively, every time his father seems proud of him or calls him "my son" or introduces him to someone, he starts to look around for her.

He's been fighting the urge to make some excuse to slip out and call her, partly because he doesn't know what to say any more than he did earlier, and partly because, in some way, if he reaches her and she's at home…

All night he's been checking over his shoulder; at every lull in the crowd's collective murmuring, he's frozen, wondering if heads have started to turn, if she's in the doorway, if she's perched on the mezzanine, leaning lightly on the railing. If she's right there, already, in the crowd, unobtrusive with her blonde hair: at his elbow.

Superstitiously, he glances behind him.

Then rolls his eyes at himself, swirling his flute.

He looks through the Hall again, and this time, at the other end of the shadowed corridor under the mezzanine, near the corner of the floor-to-ceiling glass, a flash of blood-red emerges around a pillar, tall and lithe in spiked heels.

He pauses, then crosses in shadow, picturing the two of them gossiping in the corner together, imagining coming around the pillar and finding Blair there, all dark curls and red lips, like old times.

He's almost disappointed when Serena is alone.

Her arms are folded loosely, near-empty flute in one hand. She's lost in thought and doesn't hear him approach. He tips his glass against hers, and she jumps a little at the clink, but looks at him and then away as they both drain their glasses.

When it's clear she's not going to say anything, he tilts his head. "Come on, sis. You have to smile." He pauses; no reaction. "Otherwise," he pushes, keeping his tone light, "people will think something's wrong."

One corner of her mouth ticks, sadly.

He presses on. "Like you've, I don't know, totally lost your mind or something. Started acting completely irrational."

Her mouth trembles, but the sad half-smile stays in place. He nudges her with his elbow.

"One shudders to think of the theories people might come up with," he says, leaning over to make sure no one else can hear, "of all the things a Sad Serena might do, the kind of Serena who doesn't even smile at a Met Gala…"

Finally, she cracks, concealing her snort in her throat, but barely. But as she looks up, her brow wrinkles, and chin quivers.

Her eyes look miserable. "How can you even joke with me, after the other night?" she all but whispers.

He levels a look at her and lays on the drawl. "I'm Chuck Bass."

And just for a moment, she's laughing like nothing's wrong, like mothing ever happened, and then she nudges him back.

After a brief, easy silence, he clears his throat as delicately as possible and says, "so, I presume you and- " he almost calls him Brooklyn, but decides, at the last moment, to be respectful. "Dan…?"

She nods, sober, and he's surprised that her jaw doesn't so much as tick. Although it admittedly took him part of the limo ride to register Humphrey's absence, he knew at once what it meant.

"Yes," she says. "It was the right thing. Yesterday, after school…" she shuts her eyes for a second, then they flutter open, gaze downcast. "It was time."

He swallows, trying not to come off insincere, which would be easy.

"I'm sorry," he says, quietly.

"Thank you," she says, and now her lips do tremble a little. She presses them together, and then something occurs to her and she turns to look at him. "But he- I didn't tell him that we—about—I mean, don't worry."

He doesn't bother holding back his scoff. "Please." He meets her earnest gaze with narrowed eyes. "Depending on our parents' prenup, I've got somewhere between seven and fourteen billion problems—but I assure you, 'Fear of Humphrey Justice' isn't one."

Serena lets out a peal of laughter that draws attention from the nearest conversational bouquet, sharp and full and bubbling. She claps a palm over her own mouth, backing behind the pillar, and in spite of himself (it wasn't that funny) he's chuckling, too, and teasingly puts his hand over hers for a moment. Leaning against the pillar, fully in shadow, she tilts her head back, shoulders shaking in a mixture of laughter and relief.

When she quiets, one hand resting on her side in a way that she can't know resonates with Chuck, reminding him he has something else he needs to do, she raises her head and looks at him, her face still a residual smile from her first good laugh in days—how many?—her eyes still crinkled in the dim. "I'm sorry," she tells him. "I don't know what I was…" she trails off, sighs shortly. "I just." She swallows, eyes shifting down and then back up. "Can you forgive me?"

He wants to respond that he doesn't even know what forgiveness really means anymore, between the four of them, or whether they're just past that point entirely. He also wants to respond that he let her, for an instant—more than an instant, actually—there: that he's complicit, and sorry, too.

But he knows that isn't what she wants to hear; and more than anything, he wants to keep her head above water, keep her on a frequency below Bart's radar, calm her behavior so Erik doesn't look so tense all the time and so half his conversations don't involve the words do you think Serena's okay?

So he looks at her squarely and tells her yes, in a tone that conveys he doesn't want to talk about this anymore, and she takes the hint.

"I'm going to get another champagne; want anything?" Her eyes flick to his empty flute, and she reaches for it.

"I'm good, thanks," he says, handing it over. "Going to step out for some air."

xix.

The foyer has been lit, probably while the attendees ate dinner, with hundreds of black candles, thick cylinders of varying heights set in trays. They line the perimeter of the open room, circle the base of the welcome-booth-turned-centerpiece, and surround every pillar. He looks over his shoulder: the candles line each step of the staircase up to the mezzanine, too; and above, visible on the landing, gold candelabra stand at six feet, with long black tapers flickering, like a forest of gothic willows.

He dials Blair without looking, taking in the firelight (how many matches did it take to produce this Gala?), the black roses mounted on foot-long needles on the centerpiece, and of course, the gauze canopy with its drooping black roses. Really, they don't look bad at all, he wasn't lying when he said that to Lily. If one never knew they were meant to be spread open—

The line cuts off mid-ring.

He frowns, examining his phone. He must not have good service.

He circles the centerpiece, hurrying through the aisle between the rows of candles, then reminds himself to slow down and put a little swagger back in his step—he is, after all, in public—and approaches the front entrance to the building. The curtain is, of course, down, layers of velvet folded over each other and pooling on the floor providing a surprisingly effective barrier to the elements. Only a little cold air struggles through.

A hesitant voice startles him.

"Sir? Would you like the curtains drawn?"

He finds the source: an older gentleman, perhaps a docent, on curtain-keeper duty for the night. He's in a navy blazer, buttons undone since he's alone in the "offstage" area of the Gala, sitting next to one of the ten-foot windows facing Fifth Avenue on a padded highback stool, probably what's used at the welcome booth when the museum is open. He's almost invisible in his seat, positioned as it is near-fully concealed behind the folds of velvet.

"Oh- no, thank you," Chuck says, holding up a hand. "Just making a phone call."

"Carry on," the man says, and, after a furtive glance around, retrieves a paperback that's stashed on the stone windowsill behind the curtain, out of sight.

xx.

On his second and third try, the line rings fifteen times, and then stops peacefully.

She's not asleep; he's not worried about that. Maybe she's in the bath. Maybe she's downstairs with Dorota.

He thinks of To B or Not To B? and footage of Nate on the red carpet, struggling to stop laughing, and everything that must have come after.

He remembers Carolina Herrera, getting out of his chair and stalking up the aisle, and expecting her morose at her vanity and instead, finding her sobbing in bed, red dress in a puddle, and tightening the sheet around her while she cried into his shirt.

He exhales harsher than he means to.

"Everything all right?" the gentleman at the window asks.

He nods without looking up.

He texts Arthur, who is lurking two blocks away by pre-agreement: between Nate, Serena and Blair, there were too many variables not to have him nearby. Pls pull up. Might need to go.

He dials again, counts to twenty rings, slows his breath. If she took out the jack again, it wouldn't even be ringing, right…?

He kills the line and pauses over Redial. Arthur hasn't texted back.

"I beg your pardon," he says to the man as he approaches the window and leans over the sill. "Don't mind me."

The man lowers his paperback, finger marking his page. "Waiting for your ride?"

"Yes," he manages. "Should be here any moment."

No limo outside yet; maybe Arthur stepped out to get coffee. Fifth Avenue is quiet and it looks like it would any other night. A handful of taxis are idling at the curb across the street, waiting to scoop up any stray gala-goers.

He tries her again.

Should he bypass Arthur and get into one of these taxis? he wonders.

No answer.

He's sweating.

He hesitates, and then dials the downstairs line of the penthouse.

Same thing.

He squeezes the phone in frustration, looking out the window, exhaling in time with the white clouds of exhaust the taxis are puffing out.

His phone buzzes, and he flips it open frantically. OMW. Around corner.

Arthur.

Invisible behind the gentleman's back, he taps his fingers noiselessly on the stone, craning his head to look northward for the limo, and redials.

On the tenth ring, the line comes to life.

"Waldorf residence," says Dorota, "may I help."

"Dorota," he says, the word a bursting bubble of anxiety, "is Blair—" he catches himself just before he literally demands to know if she's in the bathtub, which is not the correct thing to ask. "Have you checked on her?"

"Miss Blair have no phone," she replies, like she's explained this ten thousand times to five thousand people. "No, I not check."

He turns away, although the gentleman at the window is dutifully not showing the slightest bit of interest in his conversation, and lowers his voice. "I've been calling nonstop."

"Where? The phone rings once, I miss it because I am making madeleines. It rings again, I answer it, now eggs are going flat." She's annoyed. "Madeleine is a delicate cookie and—"

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Is Blair okay? Is she upset?"

"She has no phone," she reminds him pedantically. "She is cold, I am sure. She refuse to take coat."

He automatically starts another question – is she upstairs? Can you please check on her? – before he registers what she's said.

"Coat?" he repeats, dumbly.

"She say coat 'not necessary,' but is February." Dorota huffs. "Her mother will not—"

He turns back to the window, panic deflating but still dancing lightly in his veins. "She—left? She's coming here? To the Met?"

"She left long time ago." Dorota pauses. "She is not arrived?"

"How…" he swallows. "How long?"

"Before I start making madeleines," Dorota offers.

He bites his tongue.

Dorota pauses. "She is not there, Mister Chuck?"

"No," he all but whispers. He turns back to the window, cursing where the hell is Arthur but cutting off mid-thought when he sees the limo waiting at the north end of the block. Arthur will pull up when he sees Chuck, and collect him at the bottom of the steps. "She's not."

He can almost hear Dorota twitching. "But she—where, then?"

He's about to snap at Dorota that that's what he's trying to figure out, cursing himself for avoiding calling her earlier because he didn't know what to say.

Just then, one of the taxis moves, although no one's gotten in it—actually, no, upon further inspection, it doesn't move. What initially looks like a streetlight reflection washing over the back window is actually a small pale oval materializing from within: someone leaning close to the glass, holding very still, looking at the Met.

He stares for what feels like eternity, like if he moves it will disappear. Then, slowly, he leans forward too, as far as he can, forehead almost on the glass.

"Mister Chuck?" Dorota is getting anxious now.

"I think she's…"

"She is there? You see her?"

"Yes," he whispers, half-relieved, half-disbelieving, and not even completely sure. But with every passing moment that the pale oval holds still, though he can't make out any facial features, he's increasingly—

"She is going to get a cold. She refused to take coat." Dorota is back to annoyed. "She does not listen. Mister Chuck, the eggs."

"Of course," he murmurs. "As you were. Sorry to interrupt."

Dorota says goodbye and hangs up in what feels like a half-second. Meanwhile, he's moving in slow motion, closing his phone, patting at his lapel and slipping it in his inner pocket.

He pushes himself up, dreamlike, from where he's nearly pressed his face against the window, hand on the stone sill, and brushes his palms.

The gentleman in front of him waits an appropriate five seconds before turning, like it's a coincidence that he's standing there, and lowers his glasses, still marking his page with one hand.

With the other hand, he gestures toward the foot of his chair, where there's an old-fashioned lever mounted on the wall, a long iron rod with a black handle, and a semicircle of visible gears.

The pulley.

He gives Chuck a meaningful look over his glasses. "Would you like the curtains drawn, sir?"

Chuck swallows, stomach fluttering so hard he's vibrating from deep inside his core. He nods before he finds his voice.

"Yes," he says.

The man, already reaching for the lever, smiles, more to himself than to Chuck. He pulls. The mechanism clicks and begins to grind, and Chuck walks to the doorway as the curtain begins to move slowly, peeling upward and away all at once, the folds on the floor unfurling and lifting into the air.

He takes a long, deep breath as the cool air bursts in when the velvet parts in front of him, and lets it out as the Met steps appear on the other side of the curtain: a little wisp of white.

A/N: And Part One of the Gala is on the books =) Part Two is well underway and I'll have it up ASAP; in the meantime, I want to thank every single one of you for your reviews, follows, favorites and messages. You guys literally GIVE ME LIFE and you'll never know what your encouragement means to me.

A few other notes:

-In my mind, the role of Cadence Alexander is played by Sarah Gadon, circa the film 'Indignation.'

-The first scene of next chapter will come with a very, very strong soundtrack recommendation that I humbly beg, beseech and implore you to follow.