Мелисса де ла Круз - Masquerade

Useless.

Impossible.

A million people every year! Which meant there must be thousands upon thousands of people at the exhibit right now. With those odds, she might as well give up immediately.

Schuyler despaired. She would never find her grandfather now. Whoever he was, wherever he was, he did not want to be found. She wondered why she was even being so forthright with the boy, but she felt she had nothing to lose. There was something in his eyes that made her feel comfortable, safe.

"I am looking for someone they call the Professore. Lawrence Winslow Van Alen.”

The boy studied Schuyler coolly as she looked around at the glowing red room. He was tall and slim, with a hawkish nose, jutting cheekbones, and a dash of thick, caramel-blond hair.

He wore a white silk scarf around his neck, a finely tailored wool jacket, and gold-rimmed aviator frames pushed back on his handsome forehead.

"One should not seek those who do not wish to be found," he said abruptly.

"Excuse me?" Schuyler asked, turning to face him, startled by his unexpected reply. But by then the boy had ducked behind a thick black felted curtain and disappeared.

Schuyler exited the Italian pavilion onto the rough stones of the main promenade, punching Oliver's number into her cell phone as she ran after the boy.

"You rang?" Oliver asked with comic obsequiousness.

"There's a boy—tall, blond—looks like a race-car driver. Aviator shades, driving gloves, tweed coat, silk scarf," Schuyler described, panting as she ran.

"Are you chasing a model? I thought we were looking for your grandfather." Oliver laughed.

"I was talking to him. I told him the name of my grandfather, then he disappeared. I may be on to something—Hello? Ollie? You there? Hello?" Schuyler shook her cell phone, and noticed she had no bars. Damn. No signal.

Moving through the garden exhibitions was like being in a time machine. There were Greco-Roman atriums interspersed with bold, clean modernist structures. Buildings were hidden behind long paths and camouflaged in forestry. Schuyler sighed, helpless for a moment.

But she was not helpless. She could sense him. She saw his silhouette pass behind a reproduction of a Greek theater. He darted through the columns, disappearing in and out of her vision. Schuyler lunged forward, careful to keep her speed in check this time, in case any of the scattering of tourists noticed something odd.

She spotted the boy dashing through a grove of trees, but was confounded when she arrived at the spot. Before her stood only a building. She moved quickly up the steps and into the structure. Once inside, she understood why she had been confused.

The interior of the building had been constructed to resemble an exterior patio; trees sprang up through the open roof, making the room appear as if it were outside. Sculptures were dotted throughout the white stone covered courtyard. All around her, she heard voices speaking in Italian, the tour guides' proud declarations the loudest of all.

Concentrate, she told herself. Listen for him. For his footsteps. She closed her eyes, trying to sense him, trying to zero in on his particular scent, remembering the combination of leather and cologne from his silk scarf, and looking as if he had just exited a fast, shiny new sports car. There! She spotted the boy standing at the far end of the space.

This time, she was unafraid to use her speed, her strength. She ran so fast she felt as if she were flying, and as before, she was exhilarated by the chase. She was even stronger than when she had chased after the woman who looked like her mother earlier that afternoon, she could feel it. She was going to catch him.

He was moving farther back into the garden. The buildings gradually became more modern, their shapes almost frightening. She passed through a building made only of glass, its walls etched with words and names. Another was composed of plastic tubes colored brightly and glowing like candy. She saw his shape moving within.

Inside, the pavilion was dark. A glass floor separated the viewer from the art below. Or at least she assumed it was art. All she could see was a writhing mass of toy robots grinding and climbing over each other endlessly as colored lights flashed in red, blue, and green in the darkness. She sensed movement, and from the corner of her eye, saw the boy's head moving quickly out of the room on the other side.

"STOP!" She called.

He looked at her, smiled, and then disappeared again. Schuyler walked back out to the garden path, once again scanning for him among the crowd. Nothing.

Oh, what was the use?

She thought for a moment. She tried to imagine Lawrence and where he might be; why he might be drawn to this place. The Biennale.

Then she remembered the map in her back pocket. She pulled it out and studied the serpentine pathways that connected the pavilions. She felt silly for a second, having not thought of it sooner. She folded up the map and walked swiftly to her new destination.

Her cell phone rang. Oliver.

"Sky, where are you? I was worried.”

"I'm fine," she said, annoyed to be interrupted. "Listen, I'll call you back. I think I know where he is.”

"Where who is? Schuyler, where are you going?”

"I'll be fine," Schuyler said impatiently. "Ollie, please don't worry about me. I'm a vampire.”

She hung up the phone. Minutes later she was standing in front of a small, red brick building. A modest construction compared to the mostly outlandish structures in the exhibit. Its facade was Georgian, Early American, with white painted trim and neatly detailed wrought iron handrails. It was a relic from another time, and the kind of place reminiscent of the early colonial settlements.

No sooner had she stuffed the map back into her pocket then she saw the boy again. He looked as if he had aged during the chase: his breath was shallow, and his hair was askew.

He looked startled to find her there. "You again," he said.

Now was her chance. Cordelia had instructed her, before she had expired in this cycle, that if she ever found Lawrence, or anyone whom she thought would be able to lead her to him, that Schuyler must say the following words.

She said them now, clearly, and in the most confident voice she could muster.

Adiuvo Amicus Specialis. Nihilum cello. Meus victus est tui manus."I come to you for aid as a secret, special friend. I have nothing to hide. My life is in your hands.

He looked into her eyes with an icy stare that could only belong to Schuyler's kind, and her words faded into silence.

"Dormio," he ordered, and with a wave of his hand, she felt the darkness come upon her as she fainted.

New York Herald Archives MARCH 15, 1871 ENGAGEMENT BROKEN Lord Burlington and Maggie Stanford Will Not Marry. Maggie Stanford Still Missing.

THE ENGAGEMENT OF MAGGIE Stanford, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Tiberius and Dorothea Stanford of Newport, and Alfred, Lord Burlington of London and Devonshire, has been broken. The wedding was to have taken place to-day.

Maggie Stanford mysteriously disappeared on the night of the Patrician Ball—six months prior. Superintendent Campbell has continued to investigate.

The Stanford family suspects foul play, although no ransom note or sign of kidnapping has yet been discovered. A substantial reward has been offered for any information concerning Maggie Stanford's whereabouts.

SEVEN

It was a jewel box of a room, high up on the highest floor of one of the tallest skyscrapers in midtown Manhattan, a building made of glass and chrome, and as Mimi looked out over the magnificent New York skyline, she caught her reflection in the plate glass window and smiled.

She was wearing a dress. But not just any dress. This was a couture confection of thousands of chiffon rosettes hand-stitched together to create an ethereal, cloudlike elegance. The strapless bodice hugged her tiny twenty-two-inch waist, and her lustrous gold locks spilled over her creamy shoulders and toned lower back. It was a six-figure dress, a one-of-a-kind showstopper that only John Galliano could create. And it was hers, at least for one night.