The Terror of Mayfair

“We’re not in the business of good things happening to us, Christine,” Andreas says. He looks up, then sees the door, and his face changes imperceptibly. “Hello,” he says, polite and amiable as ever. “Good to see you again.”

Nauseous or not, she’s utterly relieved when the bouncer bangs on her dressing room door to announce that her guests have arrived and are waiting for her. Sarah pulls her leather jacket tighter around her like a shield as she walks down the grimy hallway to the utility room. She can hear murmured conversation on the other side of the door, but does not allow herself the luxury of pausing to eavesdrop before she slips inside. Sarah nods in the direction of Andreas’ smile, nods to Christine. Cool. Businesslike. Professional. “Thanks for meeting me here. Not the greatest of settings, I realise, but at least it’s discrete.” She stuffs her hands in her pockets and leans back against the door: partly for her own comfort, partly as a security policy. “I made contact with the buyer I had in mind. He’s highly motivated. Interested in setting up a meeting.”

Christine bites her lip to hold back a laugh, and rolls her eyes at him good-naturedly. “She’s dealing with storage for Gertie,” she tells Sarah. Somehow she even managed to maintain a straight face. “So. You’re still serious about this.”

She suppresses a smile at hearing Christine unironically use the name ‘Gertie’; the only giveaway is the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. “And assuming this isn’t a front for a cult or a pyramid scheme, yes. I’m very much still serious. I mean, I don’t expect you to trust me right away, I know that would be unreasonable. But give me a chance to prove myself. I can do anything. Learn anything. Be anything.” Sarah knows how arrogant her confidence can sound, but she also knows, down to the very marrow in her bones, that she can back up every one of her claims. “And listen. If I let you down, you have every right to slit my throat and walk away. But I won’t let you down. I won’t.” 

“We’re not in the business of good things happening to us, Christine,” Andreas says. He looks up, then sees the door, and his face changes imperceptibly. “Hello,” he says, polite and amiable as ever. “Good to see you again.”

Nauseous or not, she’s utterly relieved when the bouncer bangs on her dressing room door to announce that her guests have arrived and are waiting for her. Sarah pulls her leather jacket tighter around her like a shield as she walks down the grimy hallway to the utility room. She can hear murmured conversation on the other side of the door, but does not allow herself the luxury of pausing to eavesdrop before she slips inside. Sarah nods in the direction of Andreas’ smile, nods to Christine. Cool. Businesslike. Professional. “Thanks for meeting me here. Not the greatest of settings, I realise, but at least it’s discrete.” She stuffs her hands in her pockets and leans back against the door: partly for her own comfort, partly as a security policy. “I made contact with the buyer I had in mind. He’s highly motivated. Interested in setting up a meeting.”

Sarah brushes past Christine to go over to Hugo’s closet. It’s a large walk-in affair, but Sarah keeps the door open and half an eye on Christine for the three seconds she rummages around. She emerges with a crisp white button-up; judging from the size and cut, there is no way it belongs to Hugo. Sarah wastes no time, however, in pulling on Amelia Moran’s shirt, her fingers flying through the buttons. “I’ll show you how to escape through the tunnels. It’s the quickest way off the property, and nobody–literally nobody–ever uses them but me. It’s the perfect escape route.” Sarah pulls her long hair out from where it’s trapped under the collar and lets it tumble down her back. She fixes Christine with a steady look; her tone makes it clear that she isn’t interested in negotiation. “But I want in. That’s my price.”

“You know,” she says, and this time there not a hint of flirtation or coyness in her tone. She want Sarah to see that for once, she isn’t lying. “I was going to say that if you’re going to join a thieves’ ring then you should do it for the right reasons instead of just because you’re reckless or bored or want something more than your family can offer. But there is never a right reason. Ever. Maybe I was more right than I thought when I said everyone needs to be rescued.” She walks closer until they’re face to face, and cocks her head to the side. “Go on, Sarah, lead the way. But I’m only saying this now so that I can say I told you so later: this isn’t freedom.”

The tunnels of Penthurst are a Byzantine network, snaking hidden corridors throughout the entire house–and also extending out through the surrounding parkland, finally ending in the midst of the woods, not far from the road junction she’d told Christine. Sarah has been playing in this network of tunnels since earliest childhood; she knows them like the back of her hand. Hugo regularly forgets the tunnels even exist, while Alec has, to the best of Sarah’s knowledge, never even been down there. The dark underbelly of Penthurst is where she rules supreme.

Christine sighs and wordlessly opens the back door, ignoring the icy look Andreas sends her as she ignores the charade. “Hey,” she says. “Sarah, meet Andreas Rogers. Andreas,” she soldiers on, ignoring the half-choked noise of recognition as Andreas is introduced to their guest. “This is Sarah Moran. Sarah wants in,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you, Sarah?”

Her cheeks are darkly flushed even before Christine speaks. “Fuck off, ‘Tina’.” The air quotes around the name are magnificently emphasized with cutting sarcasm. “Give me some respect, I did just save your arse back there.” The unspoken implication is that Sarah could still reverse her decision and turn them in; now that she’s seen their car, she can even give their license number to the police. But Sarah decides that she doesn’t need to issue that particular threat verbally; she knows it’ll be hanging heavily on their minds as is. She approaches Andreas’ driver side and leans down to speak to him more directly, her voice low. Maybe he’ll be more reasonable. “Your friend can fill you in on the details, but the three of us need to meet, and soon, to make plans. I’m playing a gig in the city tomorrow night. The Gaslight in Brixton. I’ll be wrapping up by 11. Drop in for the last half hour of the set, and then come backstage.” 

From the driver’s seat, Andreas finally smiles the dimpled grin that’s earned him a 20% discount on the pastries from the old lady down the street, which is the reason Christine and Tessa have delegated food provision duties to him. “We’ll be there,” he tells Sarah.

She returns Andreas’ heart-stopping smile with one of her own, and tries not to think about what it would be like to kiss that smile off his face altogether. “See you tomorrow night. I have a tab at the pub--feel free to use it.” She straightens up, realising all of a sudden that she has literally no idea how to end this social situation. What’s the appropriate way to say goodbye to these people? Sarah doesn’t think there is one. So she just turns and melts away into the darkness, moving silently back into the forest to make her clandestine return to Penthurst. She has a half-formed plan of how to break the news of Gertie’s abduction back at the house--and she doesn’t have any time to waste.

Sarah brushes past Christine to go over to Hugo’s closet. It’s a large walk-in affair, but Sarah keeps the door open and half an eye on Christine for the three seconds she rummages around. She emerges with a crisp white button-up; judging from the size and cut, there is no way it belongs to Hugo. Sarah wastes no time, however, in pulling on Amelia Moran’s shirt, her fingers flying through the buttons. “I’ll show you how to escape through the tunnels. It’s the quickest way off the property, and nobody–literally nobody–ever uses them but me. It’s the perfect escape route.” Sarah pulls her long hair out from where it’s trapped under the collar and lets it tumble down her back. She fixes Christine with a steady look; her tone makes it clear that she isn’t interested in negotiation. “But I want in. That’s my price.”

“You know,” she says, and this time there not a hint of flirtation or coyness in her tone. She want Sarah to see that for once, she isn’t lying. “I was going to say that if you’re going to join a thieves’ ring then you should do it for the right reasons instead of just because you’re reckless or bored or want something more than your family can offer. But there is never a right reason. Ever. Maybe I was more right than I thought when I said everyone needs to be rescued.” She walks closer until they’re face to face, and cocks her head to the side. “Go on, Sarah, lead the way. But I’m only saying this now so that I can say I told you so later: this isn’t freedom.”

The tunnels of Penthurst are a Byzantine network, snaking hidden corridors throughout the entire house–and also extending out through the surrounding parkland, finally ending in the midst of the woods, not far from the road junction she’d told Christine. Sarah has been playing in this network of tunnels since earliest childhood; she knows them like the back of her hand. Hugo regularly forgets the tunnels even exist, while Alec has, to the best of Sarah’s knowledge, never even been down there. The dark underbelly of Penthurst is where she rules supreme.

Christine sighs and wordlessly opens the back door, ignoring the icy look Andreas sends her as she ignores the charade. “Hey,” she says. “Sarah, meet Andreas Rogers. Andreas,” she soldiers on, ignoring the half-choked noise of recognition as Andreas is introduced to their guest. “This is Sarah Moran. Sarah wants in,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you, Sarah?”

Her cheeks are darkly flushed even before Christine speaks. “Fuck off, ‘Tina’.” The air quotes around the name are magnificently emphasized with cutting sarcasm. “Give me some respect, I did just save your arse back there.” The unspoken implication is that Sarah could still reverse her decision and turn them in; now that she’s seen their car, she can even give their license number to the police. But Sarah decides that she doesn’t need to issue that particular threat verbally; she knows it’ll be hanging heavily on their minds as is. She approaches Andreas’ driver side and leans down to speak to him more directly, her voice low. Maybe he’ll be more reasonable. “Your friend can fill you in on the details, but the three of us need to meet, and soon, to make plans. I’m playing a gig in the city tomorrow night. The Gaslight in Brixton. I’ll be wrapping up by 11. Drop in for the last half hour of the set, and then come backstage.” 

Nizhny Novgorod. Photo by Kocheshkov Alexander.

Sarah brushes past Christine to go over to Hugo’s closet. It’s a large walk-in affair, but Sarah keeps the door open and half an eye on Christine for the three seconds she rummages around. She emerges with a crisp white button-up; judging from the size and cut, there is no way it belongs to Hugo. Sarah wastes no time, however, in pulling on Amelia Moran’s shirt, her fingers flying through the buttons. “I’ll show you how to escape through the tunnels. It’s the quickest way off the property, and nobody–literally nobody–ever uses them but me. It’s the perfect escape route.” Sarah pulls her long hair out from where it’s trapped under the collar and lets it tumble down her back. She fixes Christine with a steady look; her tone makes it clear that she isn’t interested in negotiation. “But I want in. That’s my price.”

“You know,” she says, and this time there not a hint of flirtation or coyness in her tone. She want Sarah to see that for once, she isn’t lying. “I was going to say that if you’re going to join a thieves’ ring then you should do it for the right reasons instead of just because you’re reckless or bored or want something more than your family can offer. But there is never a right reason. Ever. Maybe I was more right than I thought when I said everyone needs to be rescued.” She walks closer until they’re face to face, and cocks her head to the side. “Go on, Sarah, lead the way. But I’m only saying this now so that I can say I told you so later: this isn’t freedom.”

The tunnels of Penthurst are a Byzantine network, snaking hidden corridors throughout the entire house--and also extending out through the surrounding parkland, finally ending in the midst of the woods, not far from the road junction she’d told Christine. Sarah has been playing in this network of tunnels since earliest childhood; she knows them like the back of her hand. Hugo regularly forgets the tunnels even exist, while Alec has, to the best of Sarah’s knowledge, never even been down there. The dark underbelly of Penthurst is where she rules supreme.

Sarah brushes past Christine to go over to Hugo’s closet. It’s a large walk-in affair, but Sarah keeps the door open and half an eye on Christine for the three seconds she rummages around. She emerges with a crisp white button-up; judging from the size and cut, there is no way it belongs to Hugo. Sarah wastes no time, however, in pulling on Amelia Moran’s shirt, her fingers flying through the buttons. “I’ll show you how to escape through the tunnels. It’s the quickest way off the property, and nobody--literally nobody--ever uses them but me. It’s the perfect escape route.” Sarah pulls her long hair out from where it’s trapped under the collar and lets it tumble down her back. She fixes Christine with a steady look; her tone makes it clear that she isn’t interested in negotiation. “But I want in. That’s my price.”

“The servants,” she echoed, not distracted enough to forgo a spike of irritation. “Sure, Sarah. Half an hour.” She squeezes Sarah’s shoulder lightly, and takes a step in the direction of the party. She pictures the layout of the house, mentally tracing her path, already knowing that the sound of the party will mask the creaking of the unfamiliar floorboards. The first time she’d done this, her palms had been sweating and she’d almost worried herself sick before she even began. Now, at the one job where it truly matters, all she feels is anticipation. She glances back at Sarah and allows it to show on her face, just briefly. In the near-dark, Sarah looks like a painting herself. If Christine were luckier, this is the painting she’d be stealing instead of leaving behind. “Keep the lace,” she adds, still flushed and grinning. “Something tells me you don’t wear it often, and it’ll be such a special night.”

She carefully opens the trap-door and silently jumps down onto the plush carpet several feet below, landing cat-like with a practiced grace that can only suggest she has done this many times before. Sarah pads along down the hallway with her bare feet, moving quickly and silently and praying, just praying, that she’ll make it back upstairs in time to at least throw on a shirt before Christine arrives. She finally reaches Hugo’s bedroom and throws the door open without a second thought–but really, all the second thoughts in the world could not have prepared her for the sight that greeted her within the room.

Christine is so shocked by Sarah’s appearance that it doesn’t immediately register that she’s been caught. The frame lies in pieces by Christine’s kneeling form, the wall is conspicuously bare behind her, and she’s staring wide-eyed at where Sarah stands only slightly more dressed and significantly more surprised than the Woman on the picture that Christine is so obviously stealing. “Well,” she manages weakly. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”

But then her eyes land on the dismantled frame lying on the floor, and the reality of what Christine has done hits her again, and she lets out a single, unamused–but not unimpressed–laugh. “Not bad for half an hour’s work. And I mean, bravo.” Her eyebrows furrow just a little deeper. “But what are you planning on doing with Gertie?” She isn’t even thinking about how patently ridiculous the name is. “You can never resell her on the open market; it’s too distinctive. Everyone will know it’s a theft.”

She glances at Sarah’s state of undress briefly, and wonders what she’d done to deserve this. Well, technically she does engage in property theft quite frequently. But other than that. Then a horrifying thought occurs to her: “Wait, are you dressed like this because you knew I was going to steal the Rembrandt? Is this your idea of a joke?”

Sarah just freezes for a split second and looks at Christine, as if unable to quite believe what she’s just heard. But then the first giggle slips out, and then another, and then in a matter of just a few seconds, Sarah is nearly doubled-over with laughter. She instinctively clasps a hand to her mouth to smother the sound, but there is no way to hide the gleeful mirth that is wracking her entire body. “You–you thought I was coming down here with my tits out to ironically catch you red-handed?” Another breathless peal of laughter. “Oh my God. This is the best fucking day of my life.” She’s wiping tears from the corners of her eyes as she straightens up and tries to calm herself with a deep breath haggard from laughter. “Even if you did insinuate that my tits are as saggy as Gertie’s.” That sets Sarah off yet again.

Slowly, she gets to her feet and frowns. It still isn’t clear why Sarah decided to appear in her father’s room in this state when she should have been waiting for Christine in the attic, but they’re both equally thrown by finding each other here. And if Christine is honest? Getting caught by a half-clothed Sarah does rank higher on Christine’s list of things that she’d like to experience than getting caught by a fully-clothed Sarah. “You’re not going to call for help?” she asks. With the shock of the situation receding, she sounds almost curious.

“The servants,” she echoed, not distracted enough to forgo a spike of irritation. “Sure, Sarah. Half an hour.” She squeezes Sarah’s shoulder lightly, and takes a step in the direction of the party. She pictures the layout of the house, mentally tracing her path, already knowing that the sound of the party will mask the creaking of the unfamiliar floorboards. The first time she’d done this, her palms had been sweating and she’d almost worried herself sick before she even began. Now, at the one job where it truly matters, all she feels is anticipation. She glances back at Sarah and allows it to show on her face, just briefly. In the near-dark, Sarah looks like a painting herself. If Christine were luckier, this is the painting she’d be stealing instead of leaving behind. “Keep the lace,” she adds, still flushed and grinning. “Something tells me you don’t wear it often, and it’ll be such a special night.”

She carefully opens the trap-door and silently jumps down onto the plush carpet several feet below, landing cat-like with a practiced grace that can only suggest she has done this many times before. Sarah pads along down the hallway with her bare feet, moving quickly and silently and praying, just praying, that she’ll make it back upstairs in time to at least throw on a shirt before Christine arrives. She finally reaches Hugo’s bedroom and throws the door open without a second thought–but really, all the second thoughts in the world could not have prepared her for the sight that greeted her within the room.

Christine is so shocked by Sarah’s appearance that it doesn’t immediately register that she’s been caught. The frame lies in pieces by Christine’s kneeling form, the wall is conspicuously bare behind her, and she’s staring wide-eyed at where Sarah stands only slightly more dressed and significantly more surprised than the Woman on the picture that Christine is so obviously stealing. “Well,” she manages weakly. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”

But then her eyes land on the dismantled frame lying on the floor, and the reality of what Christine has done hits her again, and she lets out a single, unamused–but not unimpressed–laugh. “Not bad for half an hour’s work. And I mean, bravo.” Her eyebrows furrow just a little deeper. “But what are you planning on doing with Gertie?” She isn’t even thinking about how patently ridiculous the name is. “You can never resell her on the open market; it’s too distinctive. Everyone will know it’s a theft.”

She glances at Sarah’s state of undress briefly, and wonders what she’d done to deserve this. Well, technically she does engage in property theft quite frequently. But other than that. Then a horrifying thought occurs to her: “Wait, are you dressed like this because you knew I was going to steal the Rembrandt? Is this your idea of a joke?”

Sarah just freezes for a split second and looks at Christine, as if unable to quite believe what she’s just heard. But then the first giggle slips out, and then another, and then in a matter of just a few seconds, Sarah is nearly doubled-over with laughter. She instinctively clasps a hand to her mouth to smother the sound, but there is no way to hide the gleeful mirth that is wracking her entire body. “You--you thought I was coming down here with my tits out to ironically catch you red-handed?” Another breathless peal of laughter. “Oh my God. This is the best fucking day of my life.” She’s wiping tears from the corners of her eyes as she straightens up and tries to calm herself with a deep breath haggard from laughter. “Even if you did insinuate that my tits are as saggy as Gertie’s.” That sets Sarah off yet again.

it be like that

hugo moran when sarah is just living her life

“The servants,” she echoed, not distracted enough to forgo a spike of irritation. “Sure, Sarah. Half an hour.” She squeezes Sarah’s shoulder lightly, and takes a step in the direction of the party. She pictures the layout of the house, mentally tracing her path, already knowing that the sound of the party will mask the creaking of the unfamiliar floorboards. The first time she’d done this, her palms had been sweating and she’d almost worried herself sick before she even began. Now, at the one job where it truly matters, all she feels is anticipation. She glances back at Sarah and allows it to show on her face, just briefly. In the near-dark, Sarah looks like a painting herself. If Christine were luckier, this is the painting she’d be stealing instead of leaving behind. “Keep the lace,” she adds, still flushed and grinning. “Something tells me you don’t wear it often, and it’ll be such a special night.”

She carefully opens the trap-door and silently jumps down onto the plush carpet several feet below, landing cat-like with a practiced grace that can only suggest she has done this many times before. Sarah pads along down the hallway with her bare feet, moving quickly and silently and praying, just praying, that she’ll make it back upstairs in time to at least throw on a shirt before Christine arrives. She finally reaches Hugo’s bedroom and throws the door open without a second thought–but really, all the second thoughts in the world could not have prepared her for the sight that greeted her within the room.

Christine is so shocked by Sarah’s appearance that it doesn’t immediately register that she’s been caught. The frame lies in pieces by Christine’s kneeling form, the wall is conspicuously bare behind her, and she’s staring wide-eyed at where Sarah stands only slightly more dressed and significantly more surprised than the Woman on the picture that Christine is so obviously stealing. “Well,” she manages weakly. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”

But then her eyes land on the dismantled frame lying on the floor, and the reality of what Christine has done hits her again, and she lets out a single, unamused--but not unimpressed--laugh. “Not bad for half an hour’s work. And I mean, bravo.” Her eyebrows furrow just a little deeper. “But what are you planning on doing with Gertie?” She isn’t even thinking about how patently ridiculous the name is. “You can never resell her on the open market; it’s too distinctive. Everyone will know it’s a theft.”

“The servants,” she echoed, not distracted enough to forgo a spike of irritation. “Sure, Sarah. Half an hour.” She squeezes Sarah’s shoulder lightly, and takes a step in the direction of the party. She pictures the layout of the house, mentally tracing her path, already knowing that the sound of the party will mask the creaking of the unfamiliar floorboards. The first time she’d done this, her palms had been sweating and she’d almost worried herself sick before she even began. Now, at the one job where it truly matters, all she feels is anticipation. She glances back at Sarah and allows it to show on her face, just briefly. In the near-dark, Sarah looks like a painting herself. If Christine were luckier, this is the painting she’d be stealing instead of leaving behind. “Keep the lace,” she adds, still flushed and grinning. “Something tells me you don’t wear it often, and it’ll be such a special night.”

She carefully opens the trap-door and silently jumps down onto the plush carpet several feet below, landing cat-like with a practiced grace that can only suggest she has done this many times before. Sarah pads along down the hallway with her bare feet, moving quickly and silently and praying, just praying, that she’ll make it back upstairs in time to at least throw on a shirt before Christine arrives. She finally reaches Hugo’s bedroom and throws the door open without a second thought--but really, all the second thoughts in the world could not have prepared her for the sight that greeted her within the room.

She makes her way to the railing, charmed by the view in spite of herself. The fairy lights turn the details of the garden to a blur, but the roses bloom fresh and vibrant in the evening air. She turns her back on them and hauls herself up to sit on the railing, hands planted on either side of her for balance. Her slacks will be wrinkled beyond hope, but she can live with that. This way she has a view of both the door to the party and Sarah, framed by the golden light of the inside. It looks like a halo; Christine’s heart gives kick. “Maybe,” she says. “You’re going to have to save me.”

She shifts her hand, just barely, and presses the length of her arm against Sarah’s on the railing. “Earlier you asked me if I was any good at sneaking away. Where would you have liked to go?”

She smiles coyly up at Christine; under her sooty lashes, there’s clear interest written in her eyes. “I mean, there are any number of places I’d love to take you. But as for tonight…I was thinking about my bedroom upstairs.” Sarah gestures generally up to the attics of the house with a slight flick of her head. “We can…relax a little. Get comfortable. Get to know each other better. What do you say?” 

Belatedly, she thinks, oh. Sarah Moran. Hugo’s daughter. She looks at Sarah intently and thinks, I’m robbing you. She wonders if Sarah had ever lost anything close in worth to thirty three million dollars. “How many girls have fallen for that line? You know, Hugo Moran is in there,” she nods in the direction of the party, then leans in and lowers her voice. “There’s no way he won’t notice us sneaking upstairs. Unless you’ve got a secret passageway to your room like a princess?” Show me an escape route.

“I’m sorry I’m not the diversion you hoped for, Miss Moran,” she says, in the honey sweet way that she’d learned from her mother. “Guess I’m not the toy you hoped to find and dangle in front of your father as a petty disobedience.” It hurts more than she expected, to find herself the tool of Sarah’s rebellion. Christine feels a brief stab of vicious gladness that, no matter what Sarah thinks, she will sneak upstairs past Hugo later tonight, and sneak out just as easily. She’ll leave with something that’s worth  thirty million, even though it isn’t Sarah’s kiss.

“Petty disobedience? Jesus Christ. I’m twenty-two years old, love, we’re well past that.” She snorts incredulously–an unladylike sound–and withdraws a cigarette and a lighter from a cleverly concealed pocket of her dress. The smoke will cling to the fabric, she knows–but that’s why God invented high-end dry-cleaners. She lights up, keeping an eye on Christine the entire time. “Let’s get a few things clear. I’ve no interest in you as a toy, Tina. And I couldn’t care less what my father thinks. But I also have far too much self-respect to get tangled up with someone who’s intimidated by him. By all of this.” She uses the lit end of her cigarette to gesture around her. “Your laugh just then–you found out who I was, and you panicked. Realised you’d maybe bit off more than you could chew. Am I wrong?”

She watches the smoke rise from the tip of Sarah’s cigarette for a moment, fingers itching. It’s a nasty habit from her teenage years that she’s trying to leave behind, but what the hell. She holds out her hand again, this time in question. “May I?”

“And here I thought I picked the sexiest spot in town,” Christine says. “All the hot and heavy action of the House of Lords, eighty-year-old socialites, and people who consider owning horses a hobby.” She licks her lips and holds out the cigarette to Sarah. “Which one of those are you? If it’s the eighty-year-old socialite then I have to say: you’re pulling off that dress remarkably well.”

“You’ve caught me,” she deadpans. “It’s amazing how perfect genes and unlimited cash will stop the aging process dead in its tracks. I’ll give this for old Hugo: between me and my brother, he does know how to make obnoxiously beautiful children.” She rolls her eyes, as if to show just how little of a hoot she gives about this nonsense. “I’m here as a command performance. A friend of mine wanted to network with a few of the guests, so I figured I could put up with this all for an evening if it got her through the door.” She sighs. “And then she had the gall to go and actually try networking with judges. Can you imagine? Abandoning the likes of me–” she pauses, looking down for dramatic effect at the admittedly impressive figure she cuts, “for some dirty old bastard in a wig? Unthinkable.”

Before she can think twice about it, Christine is reaching for Sarah under guise of needing her help as she slips from the railing. She lets her hand linger on Sarah’s shoulder and leans in, conspirational. Her thumb traces the outline of the lace as she talks, as though she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. Her grin says otherwise. “Look, I’ve got to meet the person that I came here with, let him know that I’m okay.” It’s only technically a lie – she does have to check in with Andreas when she gets to the painting. The key is not to arouse suspicion now. Sarah is clever, which is as attractive as it is inconvenient at this point. “If I sneak away now, will you meet me in about half an hour?”

She makes her way to the railing, charmed by the view in spite of herself. The fairy lights turn the details of the garden to a blur, but the roses bloom fresh and vibrant in the evening air. She turns her back on them and hauls herself up to sit on the railing, hands planted on either side of her for balance. Her slacks will be wrinkled beyond hope, but she can live with that. This way she has a view of both the door to the party and Sarah, framed by the golden light of the inside. It looks like a halo; Christine’s heart gives kick. “Maybe,” she says. “You’re going to have to save me.”

She shifts her hand, just barely, and presses the length of her arm against Sarah’s on the railing. “Earlier you asked me if I was any good at sneaking away. Where would you have liked to go?”

She smiles coyly up at Christine; under her sooty lashes, there’s clear interest written in her eyes. “I mean, there are any number of places I’d love to take you. But as for tonight…I was thinking about my bedroom upstairs.” Sarah gestures generally up to the attics of the house with a slight flick of her head. “We can…relax a little. Get comfortable. Get to know each other better. What do you say?” 

Belatedly, she thinks, oh. Sarah Moran. Hugo’s daughter. She looks at Sarah intently and thinks, I’m robbing you. She wonders if Sarah had ever lost anything close in worth to thirty three million dollars. “How many girls have fallen for that line? You know, Hugo Moran is in there,” she nods in the direction of the party, then leans in and lowers her voice. “There’s no way he won’t notice us sneaking upstairs. Unless you’ve got a secret passageway to your room like a princess?” Show me an escape route.

“I’m sorry I’m not the diversion you hoped for, Miss Moran,” she says, in the honey sweet way that she’d learned from her mother. “Guess I’m not the toy you hoped to find and dangle in front of your father as a petty disobedience.” It hurts more than she expected, to find herself the tool of Sarah’s rebellion. Christine feels a brief stab of vicious gladness that, no matter what Sarah thinks, she will sneak upstairs past Hugo later tonight, and sneak out just as easily. She’ll leave with something that’s worth  thirty million, even though it isn’t Sarah’s kiss.

“Petty disobedience? Jesus Christ. I’m twenty-two years old, love, we’re well past that.” She snorts incredulously–an unladylike sound–and withdraws a cigarette and a lighter from a cleverly concealed pocket of her dress. The smoke will cling to the fabric, she knows–but that’s why God invented high-end dry-cleaners. She lights up, keeping an eye on Christine the entire time. “Let’s get a few things clear. I’ve no interest in you as a toy, Tina. And I couldn’t care less what my father thinks. But I also have far too much self-respect to get tangled up with someone who’s intimidated by him. By all of this.” She uses the lit end of her cigarette to gesture around her. “Your laugh just then–you found out who I was, and you panicked. Realised you’d maybe bit off more than you could chew. Am I wrong?”

She watches the smoke rise from the tip of Sarah’s cigarette for a moment, fingers itching. It’s a nasty habit from her teenage years that she’s trying to leave behind, but what the hell. She holds out her hand again, this time in question. “May I?”

“And here I thought I picked the sexiest spot in town,” Christine says. “All the hot and heavy action of the House of Lords, eighty-year-old socialites, and people who consider owning horses a hobby.” She licks her lips and holds out the cigarette to Sarah. “Which one of those are you? If it’s the eighty-year-old socialite then I have to say: you’re pulling off that dress remarkably well.”

“You’ve caught me,” she deadpans. “It’s amazing how perfect genes and unlimited cash will stop the aging process dead in its tracks. I’ll give this for old Hugo: between me and my brother, he does know how to make obnoxiously beautiful children.” She rolls her eyes, as if to show just how little of a hoot she gives about this nonsense. “I’m here as a command performance. A friend of mine wanted to network with a few of the guests, so I figured I could put up with this all for an evening if it got her through the door.” She sighs. “And then she had the gall to go and actually try networking with judges. Can you imagine? Abandoning the likes of me--” she pauses, looking down for dramatic effect at the admittedly impressive figure she cuts, “for some dirty old bastard in a wig? Unthinkable.”

She makes her way to the railing, charmed by the view in spite of herself. The fairy lights turn the details of the garden to a blur, but the roses bloom fresh and vibrant in the evening air. She turns her back on them and hauls herself up to sit on the railing, hands planted on either side of her for balance. Her slacks will be wrinkled beyond hope, but she can live with that. This way she has a view of both the door to the party and Sarah, framed by the golden light of the inside. It looks like a halo; Christine’s heart gives kick. “Maybe,” she says. “You’re going to have to save me.”

She shifts her hand, just barely, and presses the length of her arm against Sarah’s on the railing. “Earlier you asked me if I was any good at sneaking away. Where would you have liked to go?”

She smiles coyly up at Christine; under her sooty lashes, there’s clear interest written in her eyes. “I mean, there are any number of places I’d love to take you. But as for tonight…I was thinking about my bedroom upstairs.” Sarah gestures generally up to the attics of the house with a slight flick of her head. “We can…relax a little. Get comfortable. Get to know each other better. What do you say?” 

Belatedly, she thinks, oh. Sarah Moran. Hugo’s daughter. She looks at Sarah intently and thinks, I’m robbing you. She wonders if Sarah had ever lost anything close in worth to thirty three million dollars. “How many girls have fallen for that line? You know, Hugo Moran is in there,” she nods in the direction of the party, then leans in and lowers her voice. “There’s no way he won’t notice us sneaking upstairs. Unless you’ve got a secret passageway to your room like a princess?” Show me an escape route.

“I’m sorry I’m not the diversion you hoped for, Miss Moran,” she says, in the honey sweet way that she’d learned from her mother. “Guess I’m not the toy you hoped to find and dangle in front of your father as a petty disobedience.” It hurts more than she expected, to find herself the tool of Sarah’s rebellion. Christine feels a brief stab of vicious gladness that, no matter what Sarah thinks, she will sneak upstairs past Hugo later tonight, and sneak out just as easily. She’ll leave with something that’s worth  thirty million, even though it isn’t Sarah’s kiss.

“Petty disobedience? Jesus Christ. I’m twenty-two years old, love, we’re well past that.” She snorts incredulously–an unladylike sound–and withdraws a cigarette and a lighter from a cleverly concealed pocket of her dress. The smoke will cling to the fabric, she knows–but that’s why God invented high-end dry-cleaners. She lights up, keeping an eye on Christine the entire time. “Let’s get a few things clear. I’ve no interest in you as a toy, Tina. And I couldn’t care less what my father thinks. But I also have far too much self-respect to get tangled up with someone who’s intimidated by him. By all of this.” She uses the lit end of her cigarette to gesture around her. “Your laugh just then–you found out who I was, and you panicked. Realised you’d maybe bit off more than you could chew. Am I wrong?”

She watches the smoke rise from the tip of Sarah’s cigarette for a moment, fingers itching. It’s a nasty habit from her teenage years that she’s trying to leave behind, but what the hell. She holds out her hand again, this time in question. “May I?”