“Aye aye, Captain.”
She rolls her eyes at me and steps aside, giving my hand one final squeeze before letting me go. “Miss Piccolo,” she calls as I get to the door. I assume she’s going to tell me to be carefulor give me another chance to back out. However, she looks resolute, and maybe also proud. “Get our mark, princess.”
Manufactured heat creeps up the stairs as I creep down, and with it, the smell of perfume and sweat. Unable to thwart the urge to compare wealth, I appraise Thorne’s home. Our ballroom is larger and grander, with skylights for easy kidnapping access, and Greek-style columns. Other displays of wealth remain the same—gilded oil paintings and the sound of violins and cellos bouncing off the walls. The chatter of well-to-do citizens and music is a cacophony familiar to me, but uncomfortable. Like a well-worn shoe on the wrong foot.
Cornelius Thorne sticks out like Papa does; there is permanence to his presence, an unignorable importance. It signals to me like a lighthouse, or, less flatteringly, like one bird of a feather to another. He’s a timid-looking man with birdlike features, including an oversized, sharply slanted nose, and quick black eyes that never entirely focus. The wiry, white-haired tyrant stands in the corner of the room, flanked by one burly CO. Considering the vast number of Upperclass people in attendance, I note an unusually low number of uniformed COs. Ballsy, and stupid.
I stick to the perimeter of the room and try to bring forth the information I have on Cornelius Thorne from the file in my brain. Made a widower many years ago and subsequently childless, he is a ruthless man with a lifetime of loneliness and an absolutely wretched reputation for abusing his inferiors. What kind of woman interests a man like that? With each footstep toward the leader, I craft that woman inside me. She needs to be convincing. My life depends on it.
“Leader Thorne,” I drawl, approaching him with a steady stride and holding out my hand. “Leader Thorne, my name is Aurore Dupin. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
The man’s white mustache flicks. “Have we met before, miss?”
“Oh, certainly. My father, Pierre Dupin, worked for you in Chicago.”
His sloped nose twitches in thought, like an oversized rabbit. “I don’t remember a Dupin.”
“You wouldn’t. He died when I was only five, all those years ago.” I feign a mournful sigh at my imaginary dead father. Not as hard to imagine as I’d like. “You sent us a wonderful bouquet of flowers. And, as luck would have it, when we went to Father’s office to collect his belongings, you were there. Mama and I were thrilled. We rode the elevator with you. So, we haven’t met properly, you see, but I’ve never forgotten you. You never forget meeting the most powerful man in all the regions.”
“Oh.” He grunts, confused and jittery, but preening. I place my hand on his arm and rub it soothingly. “I’m sorry for your loss, young lady.”
“Thank you. Father was quite proud to work for you. I remember him saying you were not only a brilliant businessman and a great leader, but that you had impeccable taste. He spent years trying to acquire a Degas like the beautiful one you have over there.”
Cornelius’s black eyes flit to one of the paintings on the wall, and then back to me. “He was interested in the arts?”
“As much as his leisure time would allow. We are from Parisian stock, so the love of gorgeous art is in our blood. I’m quite fond of the Caravaggio you have over there.” I point to the giant portrait hanging at the turn in the stairs. At least my forced education in art history is proving useful. The painting isThe Crucifixion of Saint Andrewand, truthfully, I’m not a fan. However, its placement, in plain sight drawing the eye, means he probably is.
“My wife was the collector.” He turns to face the painting. “She got me interested, before she passed.”
“She had a great eye.” I lean into his arm, which I’ve folded over my own. “Do you have more of his work?” I know another one hangs in his wife’s abandoned bedroom.
He nods absently. “I do. I kept the paintings she bought. Not for their sentimental value, of course, but their monetary value.”
“Absolutely. Since the Rift, original paintings of known provenance are scarce. Most people try to pass knockoffs in gilded frames and claim them as originals. It’s deplorable, isn’t it? They flood the market, and without experts to discern the real from the fake, the value plummets. People have no respect for the integrity of the market.”
His eyes light up, and it’s hook, line, and sinker. “Would you like to dance, Miss Dupin?”
Damnit. “I would be honored, Leader Thorne.”
“Wonderful.” Thorne brings me to the dance floor and bends at the waist. We fall in with the dancers in a stilted version of a foxtrot. He’s got as much rhythm as charm but thankfully doesn’t step on my dress or feet. “Where are you from, Miss Dupin?”
I probably should’ve crafted a craftier backstory than a cool name. “Joliet.” It’s the only town near Chicago I know offhand.
“Is that so? You don’t sound MidCountry. The accent is a bit off.”
“When I deal with powerful men, I often find my accent makes them take me less seriously.”
“Indeed.” He nods along with me. “Where were you educated?”
“A private academy in Chicago. Father left us a sizable inheritance, so I received the best schooling available.”
His wandering hand is touching me far too intimately for this dance, and I breathe mindfully to hide my discomfort.“Interesting. You know, Miss Dupin, you remind me a lot of someone.”
“Someone favorable, I hope,” I reply, willing strength into my voice.
“Oh, yes.” He pulls me close, giving me an unfortunate whiff of his breath. Why do older men always smell like an old closet? “My wife.”
As we march around the dance floor, I try to make a mental note of how many officers are in attendance. Almost a dozen so far, and though they look unarmed, I doubt it. Many rich people find firearms uncouth. Papa has his Force wear weapons discreetly for events.
