The wooden valet podium is bolted to a marble base. Four brass bolts, quarter-inch diameter, sunk into pre-drilled holes. Decorative, not structural. The marble base weighs roughly eighty pounds. The oak podium another sixty. The leather-bound reservation book on top, another three.
I wrap both hands around the podium's central column and pull straight up.
The brass bolts shear clean. All four at once. A sound like a small-caliber rifle shot, multiplied by four, cracking across the quiet evening air. The marble base separates from the quartz drive with a grinding pop, trailing a puff of white dust.
I hold the entire assembly at chest height. The reservation book slides off and lands open on the ground, pages fluttering.
The head valet's composure breaks. Both nostrils flare.
I carry the podium ten feet to the left and set it down on the grass median that separates the VIP lane from the standard drop-off loop. The marble base sinks two inches into the manicured lawn. Somewhere inside the clubhouse, an Elf groundskeeper's ears are probably ringing.
The VIP lane is clear.
I walk back to the van. Lean down to Magnolia's window. The frame where the windshield should be frames her face and her wild hair and her wide, unblinking eyes.
"Pull forward."
She pulls forward. The van rattles into the VIP lane and stops beneath the crystal awning with a shudder and a final backfire that sets off a proximity ward on the nearest lamppost. The wisp-light inside flickers blue to red to blue again, confused.
I round the vehicle to the driver's side and open her door. The hinge groans. At least this door still exists.
Magnolia steps out. Her dress, a deep plum thing she'd changed into during a gas station stop forty miles back, has survived the windshield situation better than it should have.Her hair has not. It stands in eleven different directions, wind-whipped into a configuration that defies geometry.
She doesn't seem to notice. She's staring at the podium on the grass.
"You moved the podium."
"It was in the way."
"It was bolted to the ground."
"Poorly."
The head valet materializes at my elbow. His silver gloves are clenched at his sides. His voice, when it arrives, is pitched at a frequency designed to convey maximum displeasure while maintaining plausible deniability of rudeness.
"Sir. That podium has been in continuous service since the Fourth Elven Architectural Reclamation. It is four hundred years old."
"Then the bolts were overdue for replacement." I retrieve my tuxedo jacket from the van's front seat, shake the glass fragments from its folds, and drape it over Magnolia's shoulders. She clutches the lapels. Her knuckles are white. "We need the van here when we leave. Touch nothing."
"I wouldn't dream of touching that vehicle."
"Good."
I grab the garment bag from behind the driver's seat. Inside it, protected by the tailor's enchantment-laced wrapping, sits the backup jacket. Every contract requires a contingency. The tailor had sewn two jackets from the armor-silk, one for the mission and one for catastrophic wardrobe failure. The griffin constituted catastrophic wardrobe failure.
I shrug into it right there beneath the crystal awning. The armor-silk writhes once, briefly, a last protest, then settles against my body with a hiss of surrender. The fit is precise. The lapels sit flat. The buttons close over my undershirt without strain.
Magnolia gapes at me.
I offer my arm.
She takes it. Her fingers curl around my bicep and squeeze once, a pressure test, the same way she'd squeezed the brass pipe at the tailor's shop before deciding it was real. Confirming that what she's holding is solid.
The crystal doors of the Silverleaf Country Club swing inward, operated by two more silver-gloved Elves who have the good sense not to comment on the muffler still lying on their quartz drive.
The lobby opens before us. Massive. Gleaming. Full of people who are already staring.
Magnolia's grip tightens on my arm.
