Page 128 of Winterveil

The smile returned. Giselle’s heart skipped. Before she could lose herself in the moment, abandoning all good sense, she gathered up her dress and went into the bathroom to change.

The gown Deckard had left for her was pure white, with fluttery cap sleeves and a ruffled chiffon skirt. It was clear that he wanted her to be seen as delicate, vapid. Nonthreatening. A pretty face with nothing behind it.

Previously, Giselle had made her peace with her only value being her looks. Her mother had put her in pageants starting at age eight, out of some unspoken but ferocious desire to prove her worth to the father who’d abandoned her. Sutton had chased her just so he could show her off like a shiny new car. And even Bonnie had discarded her so easily, the moment it had become inconvenient.

Now, as she gathered her hair into a braided crown, Giselle’s vision crowded with memories. Of blowing up the statue in Traumstadt. Of solving Deckard’s puzzle. Of standing in the tunnel as the men charged them—

She had told Nadiya and Julian that she didn’t know what had happened, and that was true. But what she hadn’t admitted was that she liked it. She had liked feeling capable and powerful. Somehow, she had managed to project her will upon the world.

Giselle shook her head, trying to chase the thoughts away. Maybe it had just been a fantasy, another one of Deckard’s tricks. Maybe he just wanted her to think that she had power, only to strip her of it again.

When her braids had been pinned in place, Giselle stepped out of the bathroom. Nadiya had put on her heels and a pair of dangling silver earrings. For a moment, Giselle allowed herself to pretend that they were two ordinary girls, preparing for an ordinary party. One where they could laugh and dance and kiss and pretend that the world was not such a fickle place, both fragile and treacherous.

“Are you ready?” Nadiya asked. She reached out her hand.

Ready to run. Ready to save ourselves. Ready to save Satow.

She wouldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t let Nadiya risk her life—or her soul—by becoming a killer. Just as she had before, in that impossible way, in that dream, Giselle would protect her.

Giselle reached back and laced her fingers with Nadiya’s.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m ready.”

Forty

Spring 2037

New York, New York

It took Julian three attempts to knot his tie. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to do it himself. It had always been his mother, or Fikret, or whatever nameless aide or PA happened to be in the vicinity. Cafferty had even done it for him once, as they waited in the lobby of city hall for the reporter from Vogue to arrive.

But not his father. Never his father. In fact, Julian couldn’t even remember the last time his father had touched him, beyond a stiff pat on the shoulder or a brisk handshake. It might have been the day of Aurelian’s funeral, when he had transferred Julian’s sobbing mother from his grip to Julian’s. It was incidental, but his arms had come around Julian in a way that was almost an embrace.

Julian brushed his hair—too long—out of his face. He doubted he would have the opportunity for a salon appointment once they were officially fugitives. Fikret would land the helicopter on the roof at eight thirty, just after sunset. Then the four of them would climb in and be spirited away to the compound on Martha’s Vineyard, where Aurelian’s ghost hung in the branches of every tree.

Simple.

Understandably, Fikret had been surprised to receive his call. The connection had been fuzzy, Fikret’s voice halting, and briefly Julian had panicked. Everything in his body resisted using the word please, but it only took a glance at Klaudia, tense and frightened in Chane’s arms, for his resistance to wither away.

Please, Fikret, he’d said. I need you.

A pause. And then: Okay.

And please, Julian had added, pulse spiking, don’t tell my father.

If Fikret had refused, Julian didn’t know what else he would have done. Klaudia and the others were relying on him; this was their only way out. He checked his watch—Aurelian’s watch. Last night he’d finally been able to get it running properly again. It was already time to go.

As the elevator descended, Julian regarded himself in the mirrored walls. In a perfectly cut tuxedo, he looked almost like the version of Julian Joyce-Young III that he remembered: the one who had charmed voters at campaign stops, courted donors at charity galas, and dazzled in even the most unflattering paparazzi photos.

He wouldn’t need to use any of those old tricks tonight. Most of Chane’s guests had probably already made up their minds about him.

And there was only one person he really cared to impress.

The others were already waiting outside the dining room. Nadiya wore a sheath of black satin that she kept tugging at in discomfort, and Giselle looked innocent and fairylike in white chiffon. Even Deckard had made a concession to the formality of the occasion and replaced his typical suit with a tuxedo.

Julian’s gaze slid past them to Klaudia.

She wore a long, strapless gown of silver, fitted to her waist and then ending in a shimmery train. Her hair was gathered high up on her head, revealing the long, sinuous line of her neck. It also revealed a very elaborate diamond choker, which glittered like a mass of fallen stars. He had never seen so much of her bare skin before, pale against her black hair. The curve of her shoulders, the hollow of her collarbones, the swell of her breasts—Julian felt embarrassed for staring at her so shamelessly, but he couldn’t help it. He was transfixed.