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“That’s what you’re wearing tonight?” Melinda looks incredulous.

“What? Emerald is a great color on me. Matches my eyes.” I know full well that’s not her complaint. I turn to the mirror in our bedroom and fluff my hair.

“It has pants . And nearly bare shoulders.”

“It’s a pair of Paul Poiret’s jupe-culottes, Mellie.”

She stares blankly.

“Harem pants, Mellie,” I explain, trying to keep condescension out of my tone. “Inspired by the Parisian ballet performance of Scheherazade. Ring any bells?”

She only continues to stare.

I sigh. “Well, they’re in style. Here’s a wild thought—maybe in all your free time, you pick up a fashion magazine every once in a while. Vogue is a good place to start.”

“I just…” She finally finds her voice, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re going to wear that tonight.”

“Don’t worry, I’m still wearing heels and a brassiere,” I assure her. “I’m not a total heathen.”

“ Those heels?” She points to the gold, winged, T-strap heels on the floor.

“Yes,” I say tiredly, whirling to face her. “Do you have a problem with those too? ”

“No. It’s just…” She meets my eyes, curious, perhaps a little envious. “Where do you get all this chic stuff?”

Oh.

“I do a lot of secondhand shopping.”

The lie comes easily because it’s born from truth. Other people’s closets are a great place to shop. The bottomless stolen cashflow from my thief boyfriend doesn’t hurt either.

“You always look so smart.” She’s wistful now, examining her own closet.

I can’t argue with her. The emerald green pantaloons interwoven with gold filigree and pearlescent beads that shimmer as I walk are pretty smart.

“Do you…do you want to borrow something?” I ask, rather uncertain. This is uncharted water.

Mellie leans over, peering into my closet.

“It might be fun to do something a little different tonight,” she finally squeaks.

I zero in on her pink cheeks. “Why tonight?”

“No reason.” Her response comes quickly. Too quickly.

I stare her down, knowing she’ll crack.

“It’s only…”

“Only what?”

“Only…Bobby said he might stop by?” She phrases it like a question.

“Bobby Marino? The baker’s son?” I stifle a laugh.

“We’ve been spending time together at work. Since this event is in the evening, he said he might be able to drop by. Maybe.”

I nod and magnanimously gesture toward my closet. “You can take whatever you want. I have another pair of pantaloons, if you’d like. They’re on the right.”

“I’m not wearing those,” she screeches, her pitch increasing tenfold. “Heavens to Betsy, Kat—perchance I walk before I run? ”

“Okay. Well, the dresses are on this side.” I point to the left, stifling another laugh. She walks over and homes in on the heavily skirted, robe de style gowns, staying well within her comfort zone.

“You know,” I begin, “you don’t always have to wear a ballgown to these events. This is a mixer in the billiard rooms, Mellie. It’s supposed to be fun .”

“Ballgowns are fun.”

I ignore this unhinged remark. “What about this one?” I pull out a narrow, translucently layered, pastel evening dress with just a hint of silver shimmer.

It’s a Jacques Doucet original, highly reminiscent of one of Monet’s watercolors.

For my tastes, it’s a bit conservative and overly feminine with its beaded cap sleeves and empire waist. But for Mellie…

“Oh." She’s drawn to the glittering romanticism like a magpie.

“Consider it yours.”

We arrive in the Academy billiard room promptly. I make my rounds, saying hello to a few fellas who are regulars and sharing performative air kisses with my classmates, the usual dog and pony show. I settle in beside the shuffleboard table, observing the few girls bold enough to play.

“You always look so desperately in need of a beverage at these events.”

I turn toward the familiar voice and focus on Matthew DaMolin’s sparkling blue eyes. He hands me a glass of white wine.

“Matthew. I didn’t realize you were here,” I lie smoothly.

Please. I knew the precise minute he walked in behind Daniel Dufour and Harry Astor. Harry is tonight’s target, after all.

“Indeed.” He takes a sip from his own drink. “Present and accounted for.”

“What is this, two events in one week?” I tease. “Is that a record for you?”

“Not in one week.” He looks a bit uncomfortable.

“You were at the open house seven days ago. Last I checked, there are seven days in one week. ”

His eyes twinkle. “So you’ve been counting the days since you last saw me?”

I suppose he’s got me there. I want to scowl, but I instead flash a dazzling fake smile. “Thanks for the drink,” I say, casting around my brain for an excuse to take my leave.

“Do you play?” He gestures to the shuffleboard table.

“Uh…well, the table looks rather full right now,” I answer faintly, still plotting my escape. I spot Daniel and Harry across the room, talking to Florence.

“What about pool?” He moves slowly toward an empty table. Against my better judgment, I fall into step beside him. “Want to give it a try? I can teach you.”

“Sure, why not?” I mentally pause my Harry plan. It can wait until after I’ve wiped the floor with Matthew. Shouldn’t take long. I do love to mix pleasure with business.

A few stray balls are scattered across the table.

Matthew grabs a pool cue and bends over the green felt.

A lock of blond hair falls over his right eye as he focuses, but he doesn’t flinch.

He fires off a clean shot across the length of the table, sinking a ball.

It’s an impressive strike, actually. I give him a sidelong glance, recalibrating.

“You’re aiming to get the balls in the pockets,” he explains, handing the stick to me. “On your first turn, you can aim for either stripes or solids…any ball except the black eight. That goes in last.”

I accept the pool cue and place my wineglass down.

He moves behind me, showing me how to hold it.

His fingers dart skillfully over mine, but there’s nothing lingering or inappropriate in his touch, which surprises me.

It’s kind of sexy actually, watching his fingers move so quickly, barely brushing mine.

Wondering what will happen next, I bend over to line up a shot.

He follows, but only halfway, gently placing one hand on the outermost edge of my waist. Light as a feather.

He murmurs something in my ear about angles, but I’m not really listening.

I focus on the shot I want, not the easy one he recommends.

I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.

“Like this?” I fire off the cue ball, sending it forward in a clear strike.

It collides between two striped balls, splitting them into either direction.

I smile with satisfaction as they drop into opposite corner pockets.

It’s a fantastic shot, one that definitely overestimates my abilities, but it has the effect I want.

Matthew blinks twice, surprised. “You already know how to play?”

“I never said I didn’t.” I lean on the pool cue. “You assumed, so I let you have your little moment. Are you disappointed?”

“Not in the slightest.” His eyes flicker with excitement. “This just got a lot more interesting. Care to raise the stakes?”

“What, like strip pool?” I glance around the crowded room, confused. “I hardly think that’s wise. Too many spectators.”

When I look back, however, his eyes are wide, bursting with shock.

Suddenly, I realize I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion.

The very wrong conclusion. I’m not in the slums of the bayou with the Royals; I’m at the Academy.

With the son of our benefactress. For the first time in recent history, I fight a blush.

“Um. No,” he finally manages. “My intentions were not nearly so bold.”

“Indeed not. I was merely jesting. Perchance you’ll enlighten me?” I tilt my chin up, trying to salvage whatever dignity I have left. Per usual, it seems buried deep in the Catacombs, exactly where I left it.

“For every ball I sink, you have to answer a question. And you have to answer. Honestly. No more of the dodging nonsense you pulled the other day.”

“And if I sink a ball?”

“You get to ask me something. Tit for tat.”

I bite my lip. There’s not an awful lot for me to gain in this game.

“What’s the matter? Scared you’ll lose?” Matthew baits.

It’s stupid. I know exactly what he’s doing, but he’s awfully cute when he smiles like that. And he’s awfully clever as well.

I pick up my wineglass and drain the whole thing. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

After racking the balls, I accept the pool cue to break, and I get off a decent shot. Two-thirds of the balls scatter, only a few remaining stubbornly clustered in the middle.

“Stripes or solids, stripes or solids…” Matthew murmurs, drumming his fingers on the table as he peruses the field. He accepts the stick from me and walks around the table. “Eh, I like solids.” Quick as lightning, he bends over and fires off a shot to sink his first ball.

“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath.

“Oh, I think…” He props his chin in his right hand on the table. “I think that means I get a question. Don’t worry, we’ll start off easy. When’s your birthday? And I’m talking month, day, and year. No skimping.”

This isn’t bad, all things considered. “December 2, 1897.”

“So you’re twenty-one?”

“You’re fast,” I drawl.

Then I have the privilege of watching him line up and nail his next shot. I snort, already frustrated.

“Where are you from, Katarina?”

I consider lying, but half the people in this room know where I’m from—his mother included—so what’s the point?

Better yet, why should I care?

“I’m from the Catacombs,” I answer, jutting out my chin, daring him to say something. I’ve heard it all before.

He blinks and lowers the cue.

“Not what you expected, huh?”

“Not quite,” he admits. “ Your parents?”

“My mom died when I was six. I never met my father.” My voice is hard now. “That was a freebie.”