Olivia nodded in agreement, selecting a delicate meringue and popping it into her mouth. “Everything good up there?” she asked, her tone unreadable.
Grace shook her head. “Not exactly. There was an… incident. With Tessa Monroe.”
Anna’s smile faded. “Like, a vision?”
“No. Real life. Someone tried to push her over the balcony. We stopped it, but—” She shrugged, not sure how to finish. “It was magic. I know it sounds?—”
Caroline put a hand on her forearm, uncharacteristically serious. “Honey, if anyone in this room believes you, it’s us. Did you see who did it?”
Grace shook her head. “Just a shadow. A feeling. Bryant thinks we need to keep an eye on Tessa, at least until we figure out who’s behind it.”
Olivia sipped her wine, her eyes narrowing. “You want us to help?”
“Please,” Grace said, surprising herself with the urgency in her voice.
Caroline straightened, rolling her shoulders. “I’ll make a pass around the ballroom. If anyone’s acting weird, I’ll know it.”
Anna looked at Grace, then to Olivia. “We’ll cover the bar and the garden. If she’s hiding, that’s where she’ll be.”
The three dispersed, fanning out into the crush of bodies and sound. Grace lingered for a moment, watching the chandelier light refract off Caroline’s hair, the green of Anna’s dress a beacon even as she vanished through a side door. Olivia, ever the shadow, disappeared entirely.
Grace turned her attention to the problem at hand. If she were Tessa, wounded pride and all, where would she go? Not back to the main floor, where everyone would see her shaken. Not to the bathrooms—too exposed. Probably somewhere she could regroup, nurse her wounds, and plan a counterattack.
She started down the corridor toward the catering wing, a hunch guiding her more than anything else. The air here was cooler, the noise dropping away with every step. She passed a series of coat closets, then a set of double doors labeled “Staff Only.” Through the glass she could see a flurry of white aprons and chef’s hats, the kitchen staff in full triage mode.
She hesitated, then pushed through.
Inside, the kitchen was a fever dream of motion. Cooks barked orders, platters came and went, the air thick with the smell of butter and scorched sugar. At the far end, Grace spotted a flash of white. Mayor Whitaker, sleeves rolled up, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder, browbeating a pastry chef with the fervor of a man who believed his place in the food chain was directly above “everyone else.”
He was in mid-diatribe when Grace arrived. “If you can’t manage a simple slice, then maybe next year we let the animal shelter cater the event. I’ve seen a Labrador cut a cake more evenly?—”
The chef, red-faced and sweating, tried to explain. “Sir?—”
Whitaker grabbed a knife from the counter, brandishing it with a flourish. “What is the knife too dull? Is there some union rule against sharp edges?”
He pressed the blade down onto the quiche with exaggerated force, intent on making a point. Instead, the blade slipped, and he gashed the pad of his thumb. A spurt of blood arced across the counter, dotting the pastry and the mayor’s lapel in a single, perfect line.
For a second, no one moved. Then Whitaker let out a spectacular string of expletives and clamped the wound with his napkin.
Grace felt the vision wash over her. A flash from the file Bryant had given her, the blood, the party, the sharp sting of something gone wrong. Only this time, it wasn’t fatal. Just messy.
The kitchen staff sprang into action. Someone produced a first-aid kit, someone else fetched ice, a third called for a Band-Aid in a tone of voice usually reserved for four-alarm fires. Whitaker accepted the care, blustering all the while, but Grace could see the humiliation etched deep in his features.
She slipped out before anyone noticed her, ducking back into the corridor. The taste of iron lingered at the back of her throat, a phantom echo of the vision.
She tried the next logical place, the side garden, where earlier she’d glimpsed strings of lights and a few desperate smokers escaping the heat of the party. The French doors opened onto a terrace, the cold biting at her bare shoulders.
She hugged herself, stepping out into the darkness.
The garden was empty, save for a row of topiaries and a pair of wine glasses abandoned on the stone ledge. The music from inside was muffled, but the quiet out here was almost total. The night was clear, stars blazing above the snow-blanketed lawn.
Grace shivered, more from nerves than cold. She felt watched, the hairs on her arms standing up. She scanned the garden, searching for Tessa’s silhouette, but there was nothing.
She took a few steps forward, shoes crunching on the packed snow. Then, stopped, feeling uneasy. Something was out here. But was it Tessa? Or something more sinister?
12
Grace began to regret not getting her coat before heading outside. The December air cut straight through the midnight blue satin, leeching the warmth from her arms and collarbone. She gripped the rail and willed her breath to steady, staring out at the Parker Estate’s famous gardens, now remade as a Christmas fever dream: arbors wrapped in strings of white and blue, hedges capped with meringue-like snow, reindeer silhouettes cut from plywood and dusted with silver glitter.
