Page 20 of Cross My Heart
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the minute the door swings shut behind me, I find myself in a dimly lit, classical wonderland. The cavernous hotel lobby has been transformed, with what must be hundreds of candles alight on every surface, dripping wax in rivers to the floor. Antique urns spill vast armfuls of antique roses beside the elaborate chandeliers and candelabra, but as I draw closer, I realize, they’re all dead and preserved—their crumbling, dried petals adorning the marble floors.
The effect is lush and atmospheric, almost like a mausoleum. I can hear classical music playing, the sound of an orchestra deeper in the hotel, so I follow the music down a long hallway strewn with more decaying flowers and candles, the light dim and flickering, until a man in elaborate historical dress suddenly materializes in front of me. He’s masked and wigged in a pastel-colored brocade coat and knee-high boots, dressed up like something from the court of Marie Antoinette.
“Oh, hi,” I blurt, startled. “I’m sorry, I was looking for—”
Wordlessly, he swings open a pair of double doors, revealing a grand ballroom, filled with masked guests, music and laughter. “Thank you—” I turn, but he’s already melted into the crowd.
OK then.
I edge into the ballroom, looking around. It’s an elaborate spectacle, alright: hundreds of people, all dressed to the nines, with staff and performers circulating in more of the same historical outfits. Plumes of feathers, rich satins and silks, wild colors… It’s a feast for the senses at every turn, and I drink it all in, wide-eyed.
I’ve never seen any party like this before. Even the costume bashes I’ve attended are amateur hour compared to this extravagance. Crystal chandeliers reflect off the silverware, champagne flowing, and groaning tables of the most delicate cakes and pastries imaginable. At the head of the room, a full orchestra performs—dozens of masked musicians dressed in brocade coats and gowns, led by the conductor up on a podium, dressed head-to-toe in dazzling white satin with a bouffant powdered wig.
It feels like a movie set, some hundred-million-dollar production that a crew has staged, just for us. And the guests…!
My simple dress is nothing compared to the costumes on display here tonight. Lavish gowns, white tie tuxedos, and elaborate masks disguising every face. They drink, and dance together, a whirl of color and activity. The energy is electric in the room, full of anticipation.
But I’m not here to party.
I grab a glass of champagne and take a sip to steady my nerves.Focus, I remind myself, taking another calming breath.
Someone at this party knows what happened to Wren.
I could mingle, just watching everyone for hours, but it’s coming up on eleven thirty, so I make a beeline for the wall of open French doors, leading out onto a candlelit terrace. People are talking in groups, and the air is crisp and cool, sobering me fast as I look around to find—
There. The back steps lead down to a rolling lawn, and an ornate fountain burbling in the middle.
I pick up my skirts and make my way across the dew-wet grass. It’s quieter here, away from the main building, lit only by soft spotlights in the hedgerows, and more candles set around the lip of the fountain. I take a seat on the concrete ledge to wait, letting my fingers skim the surface of the water, tracing over rose petals as my mind races with excitement, alert to every footstep nearby.
Who am I meeting? And why did they need to bring me here?
Will I finally learn the truth about what happened to Wren tonight?
The minutes tick past, as my nervous anticipation only grows. I have a view of the ballroom terrace from here, and people occasionally drift out to talk, or flirt in the shadows, but nobody crosses the lawn to meet me.
I check my watch impatiently.
11:30. 11:40. 11:55…
The minutes tick past, infinitely slow, but still, nobody comes. My excitement slowly fades, until I’m left shivering in the cool night air, my shoulders slumped, and the metallic taste of disappointment bitter in my mouth.
A member of the waitstaff drifts over, with a silver tray of drinks. “No, thank you,” I tell them, but he keeps the tray offered.
“For you, ma’am.”
I notice there’s a card on the tray, and a sprig of white flowers. Another message. I take them, excited, and wait for the man to leave before I open the note up to read.
‘Legacy is our gift, and a sworn bond.’
The single line of text is written in the same handwriting at the last note. I turn the page over, confused, but there’s nothing else on it.
That’s it?
A thorn from the sprig of flowers pricks my finger, and I wince. I suck on it, my hopes deflating as I look around.
Whoever sent me the invitation isn’t going to show. Maybe they got cold feet for some reason. Or maybe this was all some kind of sick joke from the start. Either way, I feel like a fool. I got all dressed up, and came all this way, for another weird, cryptic note? I just want to go home, and forget that I even came here.
Midnight is approaching as I make my way back past the terrace and into the ballroom. The party is still in full swing; if anything, the mood is even more hyped up, with a buzz of whispers and conversation in the room. I push through the crowds, heading for the door, when someone catches my arm.