Page 33

Julian, his cheeks flushed, turns back to look at me. I let all the symptoms of my shock show, let my eyes meet his, let them be glassy and slightly confused.

Lips firming, Julian turns back to the ambassador for one more try. The older man shakes his white head, and Julian gives a sharp and frustrated nod before turning back to me.

"Sorry," he says when he reaches where I stand. "He won't let us leave, but promises that the police will speak to you first."

"This is terrible," I say, my hand rising to my neck.

Julian gives that firm nod again before pulling out a chair.Ah, it's mine.This is where we were sitting. There is my purse. I gently lower myself into the seat and reach out to take the glass of water. My eyes fall on Vladimir's empty seat as I sip it.

What happened to the champagne glass?

Will there be any trace in it?

The band begins to play again. Nobody dances. Julian keeps a protective arm over the back of my seat. What would he say if he knew? He probably wouldn't believe me.

I can hardly believe it myself.

The salad plates are cleared as the other diners, who had been milling near the stage, return to our table. A middle-aged woman with fine lines around her eyes and pink rouge on her cheeks leans across the table, ducking her head between the giant flower arrangement to find me and offer a sympathetic smile. "I'm so sorry. That must have been terrifying."

I nod.

"I'm sure he'll be okay," she says.

I lean forward. "You think so?" I ask.

She nods forcefully. "Seizures are rarely actually dangerous or deadly. He probably has epilepsy or something like that. This could be totally normal for him."

"Then why would they call the police, dear?” asks the man sitting next to her, his voice accented and condescending.

"Dotting t’s and crossing i’s,” she responds archly, not looking at him. Waiters start bringing us the soup course.

The husband does not respond verbally, and I can’t see his face through the flowers, only his hands. He picks up his spoon and starts to eat the soup. The clinking of silver on china rises up, and the room begins to relax. The waiters move through the space, filling wine glasses, and the guests drink with a new sense of urgency.

Julian points to his own glass, and it fills with dark Burgundy wine. Then he points to mine. I shake my head. "I'm not feeling well," I say.

"Please bring her a brandy," Julian says to the waiter, who nods before moving off.

"I don't think I can drink right now," I say to Julian, low so that only he can hear.

"It's good for shock," he replies, leaning toward me. “At least that's what my grandmother always said." He gives me an intimate smile, and I return it with a small curl of my own lips. But I can't get the emotion, the humor he is trying to breathe into the air, up to my eyes. "Don't worry," he says. "I'll stay with you."

"Thank you," I say.

"I'm sure it's totally customary to do an investigation in a situation like this. But she"—he tips his head toward the woman across the way—"is probably right that he has a known condition."

I just nod.

There is a disturbance in the flow of conversation, and our gazes track with the rest of the crowds to the ballroom entrance, where a group of uniformed Chinese police are filing in. The ambassador is by the door, speaking with a man in plain clothes while the officers begin to move through the space.

The ambassador points in my direction, and Julian stands up. I take a deep breath.Here we go.

They takeus to the consul general’s private study on the second floor. It's decorated in dark wood with leather-bound books, just what you would expect. That sense of cliché washes over me again.

The detective is a middle-aged man with deep pouches under his eyes which make him look exhausted. However, his eyes are sharp and bright.

"Ms. Angela Daniels," the detective says, his accent slight.

"That's my stage name," I answer as I take the seat he indicates. It's a comfortable arm chair meant for enjoying some of the books around me, not to be questioned by police.