Pax. That kiss.Mistake. When I stretch out my consciousness, when I expand and search and focus, I can’t even sense his soul.Focus, Stella, I reprimand myself.
Spirit whistles long and low at the lavish affair coming to life. It offers me glimmers of images and sensations: piles of gold coins and gems. The sensation of pillow-soft mink fur. A whiff of delicate French perfume.
“You don’t have to tell me he’s rich,” I mumble to Spirit. “It’s rather obvious.”
A string quartet tunes and begins playing, and it adds to the mystical atmosphere. The foursome would eat up every inch of space in my room in the boardinghouse, but here, they are a tiny fixture beneath towering walls and two-story windows. Their delicate music casts a spell over us, the notes of Bach and Beethoven sweet and golden like honey stirred into hot tea—there but invisible.
My nerves are a jangle and I find myself bouncing on my toes, biting the inside of my cheek. My stomach is in knots. We never heard back from Matthew Steuer, Blanck’s attorney. We have no idea if he’ll show, or how this evening will play out, or…
Calm, Stella, I tell myself.Breathe. I squint until the candlelight bends into dancing ribbons.
Soon, the guests arrive: “Helen! Hello, my love! How was Saint-Tropez?” “Myrtle, dear. Is that a new fox stole? Its darling little eyes!” Kiss, kiss. Light hug.
Spirit shows me an image of them kissing one another’s hind ends, rather than their faces. One cheek instead of another. I stifle a giggle and thank Spirit for keeping me present.
The perfume, the pearls, the pleasantries—it all astonishes me. Are these folks happy to be here, feting this monster? Why would they accept an invitation to a soiree such as this?
The sheer wealth that surrounds me does nothing to calm my nerves. I’ve never been around this much excess. The women wear dresses that whisper like the wind. Elegant, shiny silks and lace overlays so delicate, they might’ve been spun by spiders.Gleaming soft pearls and bloodred rubies and lush emeralds dot earlobes and throats. But no Hope Diamond. Not yet.
The gentlemen wear long jackets that cinch in at their waists and small, tight ties knotted at their necks. A fresh flower or a silk handkerchief sprouts from each tuxedo breast. Hair is slicked, mustaches are groomed. Shoes gleam like mirrors.
Dignitaries and socialites and persons whose names are carved in marble on the fronts of buildings, they are.
A cartoonist draws large-headed likenesses of each guest. An artist inscribes names on a single grain of rice. A photographer takes tintype photographs of the partygoers, the bright smell of ether pulsing through the air.
A close-up magician works the crowd. “May I borrow a jitney, ma’am?” A giggling woman hands him a shiny nickel from her husband’s pocket. He’s a friend of Pax’s, name of Alex. I’ve never seen anyone smoother. Donned in suspenders and a bright yellow bow tie, he performs sleight-of-hand tricks. Alex slides a wristwatch right off an arm, lifts a wallet right out of a pocket, unclips the chain of your pocket watch and eases it into his own jacket. Meanwhile the schmuck Alex entertains is worried about tracking the nickel he offered up for the trick.
Kiyoko wanders about in a kimono, and glows as she explains her clothing’s significance. Earlier today, she wrapped herself in yards of gorgeous material in a graceful, meticulous manner. She explained that a woven-fabric kimono like hers is called a tsumugi:
“A tsumugi is made from pieces of yarn that were deemed less valuable than other strands,” she said, tightening a wide belt around her waist. “The castoffs. But other craftsmen recognizedthe value in weaving these smaller threads together to make the thread stronger and more beautiful. More unique. I think the resourcefulness of this garment lends to its beauty. That’s why I love it. Made from castoffs, but full of originality and strength.” She smiled at me in the mirror. “Sound familiar?”
I catch a glimpse of her slipping a gleaming something into the folds of her kimono, and I shake off my nerves. Right. I must get to work.
Weeks of Pax training with us—me, Kiyoko, and Nirav, and then, too, Clarice—has resulted in us becoming masterfully subtle pickpockets. I smile at the memory from just days ago: Pax saying,“Try it again. We have only five days.”We practiced most on William, who said,“If you can lift something off me, you can lift it off anyone. I can feel the twitch of a whisker.”Pax:“Again. Again. Again.” “It’s mostly about misdirection.” “Yes, Kiyoko! Have you done this before?” “Stella, quite the lovely little thief you’re becoming.”
Lovely little thief. I smile.
We work the room now like the experts we are. I slide off a sapphire ring during a brief palm reading. Kiyoko swipes a silk embroidered handkerchief right out of a breast pocket with a simple brush-by. Clarice sweeps a ruby hairpin from a coiffed updo while a guest is seated.
Clarice DuBois. When she’s not masterfully pickpocketing the guests, she is playing with fire. Literally. She’s striking matches and holding them under the guests’ soft, uncalloused palms, whispering to them that their pain is all in their mind. They titter and laugh, but they are drawn to her like, well, moths to flame. And then she steals their diamond bracelets.
And the celebrities! Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Ione Bright. Even Harry Houdini is here, and while not performing, his presence unnerves me more than any of the other attendees’. Not only is he a vocal skeptic of mediums and clairvoyants, but he’s a master escape artist. If anyone can foil our plan, it’s him.
Hedda Hopper greets everyone and ushers them toward the photographer as they enter: “Please, darlings! We need some photos for the column, you know. Right over here. That’s it…”
Ooo let’s go mess with those photographs!
Spirit photography! We’ll make ’em believe yet!
Spirit cackles, and my corner grows dimmer as my Team of Light moves to play pranks on that poor photographer. I scan the room and count one… two… three stocky men who appear to be bodyguards.
Taking in the full scene, I am surprised to find that I feel envy. Not envy for thestuff. The stuff is gawdy and impractical. No, I feel envy for theease. For the cleanliness. For the healthy food and the clean water and the soft beds. For dentists and doctors. How these people carry themselves without inhibition, with so much confidence. I envy their dispositions, not their positions.
A petite woman stares at me. She lowers her head and grins in a way that makes me question her motives. (I should, in fact, question everyone’s motives for being here, celebrating this man.) She crooks her finger,Come here. I glance around me, but yes, she means me.
I cross the room. Her aura is bright red; this woman is driven by instinct.
“I’m Bertha Blanck,” she says. I recognize her now, from theday when we were walking this neighborhood, as she ducked into that Rolls-Royce with her husband.
