“What?” he says, leaning in closer. His lips graze her cheek, beneath her black-and-gold mask. Thank God it arrived in time from Amazon and the lighting is low. She has a feeling most of the gilded masks people are wearing came directly from Atelier Flavia’s in Venice. And that the ones with shiny sparkles are encrusted with diamonds, not rhinestones. Time was, she could have easily afforded a diamond-encrusted mask.
“I’ll have another,” she says. May as well.
Peter smiles as he pulls back. He briefly slips his mask down, winks, and then dips through the crowd, long legs swishing in his silky black pants. Most of the men here wearing tuxedos merely inhabit their clothes, rather than possess them, like Peter does. People pause to look at him when he strides past, and it pleases Vivian.
She takes the opportunity to survey the room as she pops an olive in her mouth. Decadence oozes from every corner: a platter of oysters on ice, a Dom Pérignon champagne bar, a crystal bowl the size of a large fist filled with caviar. She’s brought back, momentarily, to her childhood: her parents entertaining in the living room, like usual, as she squirms in some stiff, frilly dress her mom has instructed her to wear. That was back when the house didn’t look like a weird modern art museum. Vivian was probably five years old when she first acquired a taste for caviar.
In the corner of the room, a mime catches her eye. He’s entirely white, from his tuxedo to his face paint, and is extendinghis arms out in a mesmerizing fashion. He’s pulsing in time to the throb of a techno beat. It comes up through the wooden floorboards, the vibrations like tiny waves. But then his feet follow separately, in a move that reminds her of Michael Jackson, as if his bottom half doesn’t quite belong to the rest of his body.
It’s a bit like how she feels: her head in one place, occupied with thoughts Peter doesn’t know about, as her body tangentially moves along. Vivian does not see a secretary in her immediate vicinity, but she didn’t expect to. Secretaries are mostly in bedrooms and offices, less often in hallways, and almost never in a parlor. They are in the private areas, areas that are off-limits for visitors of the Knox. Given the array of furniture she noticed when having tea with Peter, the mixture of old and new, she’s holding out hope that the rest of the rooms in the house have retained some original pieces. And that the “schedule of beneficiaries” that a well-meaning servant had taken the risk to hide all those years ago is still contained within one of them.
When she looked up the address of the Knox earlier on Realtor.com, they listed an off-market value of $23.2 million. She’s also heard whispers about a mansion north of the city, where the members escape to on summer weekends. Twenty-three million is probably chump change for Knox members, but even a quarter of that would likely get Vivian out of this financial pickle.
Vivian wants what she—and her family—are entitled to. Her mother hadn’t cared, nor her grandmother, really, but that’s because they didn’t need to care. Vivian has her mother’s medical expenses and debt to pay off, an antiques store business to save, an apartment she’d very much like to hold on to, and her goddaughter’s tuition payments to make.
She puts down her glass as the music suddenly turns louder. A guttural beat pulsates within her like a strobe light, making her feel dizzy. She starts to head toward the exit when she nearlybumps into a tall person wearing a plague mask, standing still as if he wishes to speak with her. He holds a scepter in one black-gloved hand and a crystal champagne glass in the other. She wonders if it’s Michael but then dismisses the thought; this man is not Michael-tall. What does this person want? She pauses, glancing back to see if he’s waiting for someone else, but there’s no one behind her. When she faces him again, she notices he has begun subtly nodding at her. Like they share some secret together.
No, she realizes in the next split second. The person has simply started moving to the music.
Christ.
Good thing she didn’t take the pill, whatever it was. This party itself is like a drug.
The moment she steps into the foyer, she starts to feel better, the music loosening its grip on her body. A few people mill in the hall, in quiet conversations. The mood is so utterly different out here, with jazz filtering from overhead speakers like a sprinkling of gentle rain. The ivory-painted walls are wainscoted halfway and then crowned by a shiny gold map wallpaper of old Boston. Mazes of streets train upward, to the ceiling. She lightly runs her fingers along it, feeling as if it’s beckoning her to the past.Herpast.
Suddenly, one of the doors a few feet ahead creaks open, and she snatches her hand back. Three masked men slip out. They move down the hall toward her, their voices lowering as they pass. They sway side to side, as if being blown by the wind. One of the men inclines his head at her, but it happens so quickly she could be imagining it.
The door closes with a gentle thud, but not before she spies the interior: A group of people lounge on what appears to be a large mattress on the floor. Some sort of orgy? She overheard chatter in the parlor, the first time Peter left to fetch her a drink,about some of the activities behind these doors: fortune-telling, tarot card readings, high-stake poker games. There’s some plainclothes magician lurking around who performs magic tricks when you least expect it, someone said. An old lady who’ll whip out a Magic 8 Ball, and if providence dictates, she’ll then give you an eight ball of cocaine, someone else whispered. Geomancy readings, said others. Vivian’s heard of palm readings but not geomancy readings. She’ll have to look that up later. At any rate, she hasn’t heard anyone gossiping about things sexual in nature, but she wouldn’t be surprised.
As Vivian weaves down the hall, she continues to pass guests who appear thoroughly intoxicated. One woman, wearing a mask that sprouts feathers like a peacock and a tight-fitting Marie Antoinette dress that makes her breasts pop, strolls past, her head thrown back in laughter. But nobody is with her.
What kinds of drugs are floating around this party?
Vivian turns a corner and startles as she comes upon a turquoise-painted horse on an iron pedestal. The carousel horse. It was returned just yesterday to the Knox. She can’t get away from this thing.
She distances herself from the horse, taking a few steps back. Suddenly, someone jostles into her from behind.
“Shorry,” a male voice mumbles beneath a full mask. It’s one of those creepy ones, of course. The plague. “Did I getch you?” The man gestures widely with one arm, holding a half-empty glass of red wine. His movements are as sloppy as his pronunciation.
She glances down. He might’ve spilled on her, but since she’s wearing black, it’s impossible to tell. “It’s fine,” she says. But she’s rather annoyed.
The man doesn’t say anything. He’s shorter than she is, and the tilt of his head suggests he’s staring at her chest.
Whatever, creep.She goes to move past, but the man suddenly grabs her arm.
“V,” he says, his voice low.
“Do I know you?”
He lifts his mask. Underneath, his face is sweaty, plump. Two small brown eyes. She does know him.
Xavier.
“I recognized you,” he whispers. His voice, now so clear. Like he’s suddenly sobered up. But that doesn’t make sense, because he doesn’t drink. Or does he?
“I saw your necklace,” he adds, meaning her nineteen-karat-gold “V” initial pendant. He and Rachel gave it to her several years ago for a birthday gift.
“What are you doing here…?” Her voice trails off, and his face reddens. She doesn’t need to say it. He remembers. About how weird he’d been after he saw the carousel horse in her shop. He must have known that it came from the Knox.
