“Congratulations,” Enne told him pleasantly. “On the pardon. The whole North Side is in love with you now.”
She’d clearly gone too far with her niceties, because a muscle in Levi’s jaw twitched, like he knew she was plotting something. “Not all of it,” he muttered, averting her gaze and motioning for her to follow him inside.
She did, her heels clicking on the lobby’s polished marble tiles. The elevator brought them to the eighth floor, opening to a grand waiting room with crystal on every end table and frames of prizewinning photography on the walls.
A knot twisted in Enne’s stomach, and she tensed from her toes to her shoulders. Her very survival could rest on this interview, and the reporter questioning her would be one of her mother’s killers.
A man greeted them beside the front desk, a man Enne recognized instantly as Aldrich Owain. His skin did not match the Chancellor’s dull gray, probably because of the suspicious line of makeup along his jawline. He was skinny, with little hair and shrewd, dark eyes, and the brass chain of a pocket watch dangled from the vest of his three-piece suit.
Enne had once tried to kill him, but he didn’t know that.
He’d also once tried to kill her, and he definitely remembered that.
“Mr. Glaisyer,” he spoke, grasping Levi’s hand as though they were old friends. “I’m sure you know the article ran this morning. The portrait looks good, eh?”
Levi beamed, and his slick North Side grin looked far more genuine in this change of scenery. But before he could speak, Enne looped her hands around his arm and cooed, “I thought it looked marvelous.”
Owain studied how Enne leaned into Levi with obvious interest, and Enne didn’t bother to pull away. Levi’s smile went tighter.
“Yes, well...” Levi cleared his throat. “Like I told you before, I’m happy we could arrange this.” He slipped his arm out of Enne’s grasp and pushed her forward by the small of her back. “Though she needs no introduction, this is Erienne Scordata.”
Enne nearly tripped at the sound of her true name spoken so casually.
This time, Owain’s gaze drifted to Enne’s eyes, rimmed with lavender shadow. “Of course,” he said. His palms were damp when he shook Enne’s hand, so maybe all the lace and frills hadn’t worked the way she’d hoped. “I appreciate you agreeing to this. I imagine it must’ve taken a lot of convincing.”
Enne didn’t know what he meant by that, but Levi saved her from having to answer that by cutting in. “I was hoping to suggest something we didn’t discuss earlier. Would it be possible for me to sit in on the interview, as well? I know you’d like some photographs, but even if I could sit beside her—”
Owain bellowed out a laugh. “Looking for more limelight, are you? Sheisa pretty thing to sit beside.” But he didn’t look at Enne like she was pretty. He looked at her bare neck like he’d like to see a noose around it.
Flushing, Enne was beginning to rethink her decision not to murder this man. She batted her eyelashes. “Actually, I have a bit of stage fright.” As though she were not a trained performer.
“I suppose there’s no harm. Come on, come on.” Owain led them to a studio, where photographers had put together a full set—bright lights, a leather armchair, and a deep purple backdrop. While the assistants went to replace the armchair with a love seat, Levi dragged Enne to the room’s corner.
“What are you doing?” Levi whispered.
“Am I doing anything?” she asked innocently.
“Don’t do that to me. I know you.”
“You told me to play a ditsy seventeen-year-old girl.” She gestured to her outfit and twirled. “Don’t I look the part?”
Levi pursed his lips, clearly wanting to argue. But before he could, a makeup artist fluttered over their shoulders like a hummingbird, brandishing a compact with brown powder to conceal a blemish on Levi’s chin. Enne wondered how a previous version of Levi—the one of barroom cologne and cheap card tricks—would react to see himself now.
Ten minutes later, the pair of them were ushered into the mauve love seat, and Enne made sure to sit a few inches closer to Levi than was strictly professional.
Owain pulled up a stool in front of them, a notepad on his lap.
“Erienne, we’ve heard—”
“Enne,” she told him sweetly. “Please call me Enne.”
“Enne,” he amended, eyebrows raised. “As you must know, the city is overwhelmed with curiosity about you—where you’ve come from, who you are. We’d love for you to shed some light on this. To tell us about yourself.”
She pressed a hand to her cheek as though to hide her face. “Oh, I’m t-terrible at talking about myself, and this is all a bit surreal for me. I didn’t even know I was wrong about my talents until a few months ago.”
“Yes, when you attended the Bellamy Finishing School of Fine Arts, your name was registered as Erienne Salta, wasn’t it? Did you ever suspect that you weren’t a dancer?”
“I...” Her pearl necklace suddenly felt like it was choking her. She swallowed. “I didn’t.”
