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He pulled out a long black velvet box from a bottom drawer.
"This was your mother's," he said, showing her a massive cushion-cut emerald set in a platinum necklace. The emerald was as large as a fist. "Your real mother's, I mean. Not BobiAnne."
Bliss was struck silent.
"I want you to wear it for this evening. This is an important time for us, for our family. You will honor your mother's memory with this jewel," Forsyth said, clasping the necklace around his daughter's neck.
Bliss knew little of her mother, only that she had cycled out early for an unknown reason. Her father never talked about her, and Bliss had grown up understanding that her mother was a painful subject. There was little to remember her by, and what few photographs remained were washed-out and faded, so that her mother's features were almost indistinct. When Bliss asked about her, her father only said to "channel her memories," and that she would meet her mother again if time allowed it.
The dog in Bliss's arms went berserk, snapping and growling at the stone.
"Miss Ellie! Stop!"
"Silence!" Forsyth ordered, and the dog jumped from Bliss's arms and high-tailed it out the door.
"You scared her, Daddy."
Bliss looked at the emerald, which had nestled itself inside her cleavage. It was heavy against her skin. She didn't know if she liked it or not. It was so big. Had her mother really worn this?
"The stone is called the Rose of Lucifer, or Lucifer's Bane," the senator explained with a smile. "Have you heard the story?"
Bliss shook her head.
"It is said that when Lucifer fell from heaven, an emerald fell from his crown. The emerald was called the Rose of Lucifer, the morning star. Some other stories even call it the Holy Grail."
Bliss absorbed the information quietly, not knowing what to think. Her mother owned a jewel linked to the Silver Bloods?
"Of course," Forsyth said, shaking his head, "it's only a story."
At that moment, BobiAnne entered the room wearing a frightful Versace dress that looked like metallic vinyl siding spray painted on her body.
"How do I look?" she asked her husband sweetly. Bliss and her father exchanged a glance. "Very pretty, darling," her father said with a frozen smile. "Shall we? The car's waiting."
In front of the hotel a phalanx of photographers had gathered, and a swelling crowd of curious onlookers were being held back by security gates and a legion of New York's Finest. As each black town car pulled up to the entrance, flashbulbs exploded in a cacophony of staccato bursts.
"Here we go," BobiAnne exclaimed joyfully as she stepped out of the car and leaned on her husband's arm.
But the paparazzi were only interested in Bliss.
"Bliss! Over here! Bliss! One for me! Bliss--this way!"
"What are you wearing?"
"Who made that dress?"
A few of the photographers and reporters were polite enough to ask the senator and his wife what they thought of the party, but it was obvious Bliss was the main attraction.
There were only ten steps from the curb to the hotel entrance, but it took Bliss a good half hour to get there.
"It's madness," Bliss remarked, looking pleased when she finally arrived in the pink and gold lobby and found her date waiting impatiently by the front reception table.
The St. Regis Ballroom had been transformed into a twin- kling winter wonderland: the crystal chandeliers were hung with softly beaded strings of rhinestones, and glorious American Beauty roses bloomed everywhere, from the soaring, six-foot-tall centerpieces (so heavy that the tables had to be reinforced) to the massive garlands on every archway. A snow-white carpet on the marble floor led the way from the front reception room into the ballroom proper.
"Senator and Mrs. Forsyth Llewellyn," the herald announced as the politician and his wife appeared at the top of the stairs. A spotlight shone on them, and the percussionist played a dramatic drumroll.
"Mr. James Andrews Kip. Miss Bliss Llewellyn." The four of them walked slowly into the party.
The two fifty-piece orchestras faced each other across the expanse of the ballroom, playing a serene waltz as the Blue Bloods displayed their finery--the men dashing and suave in their tails, the women preternaturally thin and impossibly stylish in their couture ball gowns. It was a magical sight. The Committee had really outdone themselves this time. The whole ballroom was filled with a dazzling, white brilliance: the antique crystal chandeliers shone, and the terrazzo floors gleamed.
