Finally, her escort stopped. “You’ll be chaperoned by Aunt Vanessa today.”
The glossy white doors swung open, and Daisy forgot how to breathe.
A banquet of excess spread before her in a ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers. Round tables draped in ivory linens were scattered across the grand room so crisp they could have cut glass.
But the food. Dear God, the food.
Banquet tables stretched along three walls, groaning under the weight of silver platters and dishes, towering topiaries decorated in brightly colored confections of cookies and cakes. It couldn’t all be poisoned.
They wandered inside in soundless awe. Soft gasps slipped through the cherry music drifting from the corner where a jazz quartet played. Crystal towers dripped with exotic fruits in shades of pink and yellow. Berries gleamed like gemstones.
Stations dotted the corners as chefs performed culinary theatre. The air was sweet and savory. Cheese wheels, pink salmon, sizzling, pan-seared sirloin. Omelets, hand-spun crepes, chocolate croissants, and cheese Danishes. Champagne bottles chilled in ice buckets, flutes stacked in a waiting pyramid, sparkling as golden bubbles rose and fell. The sweet aroma of baked sugar danced in a steady tango with the fresh scent of herbs.
Daisy’s mouth watered.
Waiters glided between tables with silver coffee pots and crystal pitchers. Somehow, she knew the juice was freshly squeezed.
Flowers exploded from vases on every surface, perfuming the air with a softness that challenged even the sizzling scent of bacon or the warm, inviting notes of the fresh bread.
“Can you believe this shit?” a woman said in an American accent as she loaded a plate several inches high.
She looked nineteen, maybe twenty, with curves spilling from her torn jeans and a face set in aggressive disbelief. Her un-styled brown hair sat in a messy knot on top of her head. No makeup aside from the black that lined her alert eyes.
“You should try that orange shit.” She jerked her chin toward a dish. “Not sure what it is, but it’s fucking delicious.”
Before Daisy could respond, the woman reached over her, snatching a plump muffin from a display. With no room left on her plate, she bit into it and moaned dramatically.
“Fuck me, that’s good.”
Whispers carried as plates slid from rocks and servants offered helpings.
“Name’s Trisha. Trisha Carter. I’m number 1952. You?”
Daisy blinked, the other’s eagerness somehow dialing up her cautiousness. “1922,” she said quietly.
“Cool.” Trisha grabbed a croissant the size of her fist and stuck it under her arm. “I’m from Philly. You?”
“London—”
“Good morning, my little does.” Aunt Vanessa glided through the doors, her cream cashmere replaced by a satin champagne dress. “I hope everyone slept well and feels rested.” Her strawberry-blonde hair was swept into an elegant twist. “We have a busy day ahead. Please, help yourself to breakfast. We have an hour before The Becoming ceremonies begin.” She spread her arms to encompass the obscene abundance. “Enjoy, my beautiful fawns. Today, you meet the future you.”
They descended on the food like a tide, some aggressive, elbowing past others to reach choice dishes, some furtive, filling plates with quick, guilty movements as if expecting someone to slap the food from their hands. They ate fast and took more than was needed, hoarding against an ingrained sense of scarcity.
Daisy took a plate and approached the tables prudently.
A burst of flames erupted from a nearby station. Gasps of awe swept from the corner as the chef grinned and poured liquid into a pan of sizzling bananas.
“Bananas foster.” Aunt V appeared at Daisy’s elbow. “One of my favorites. The alcohol caramelizes the fruit.”
Daisy watched the flames die down. “I’ve never had it.”
“Then you must.” Aunt V signaled to the chef. “Did you sleep well?”
Laughter erupted from a table by the big window where a blonde tribute held court, an entourage hanging on every word. Trisha sat alone at the table to the right of the blonde’s, head down and one protective arm positioned like a barrier around the three overflowing plates in front of her. To the left of the blonde?—
The woman from the plane.
She sat alone, picking at her food without eating, her enormous eyes as weary as a hunted animal’s.
