“Smile for us, Queen E!”
“Can you comment on your plans for a referendum?”
I keep a demure smile on my face — the one I’ve perfected after countless days in front of the camera. Chloe walks by my side, stopping occasionally to strike a pose, hamming it up for the paparazzi like we’re celebrities at Cannes Film Festival. It’s so nice to see her in good spirits, I find myself grinning with genuine joy as she tosses her long red hair dramatically.
“That’s right! Chloe Thorne in the flesh!” She plants a hand on one hip of her strapless black gown. “Make sure to get my good side, boys!”
After a dozen or so more poses, we finally make it up the stairs and through the row of massive columns, Galizia trailing us closely. Away from the press, the museum is blissfully silent. Our high heels echo against shiny floors as we enter the space, its ceilings soaring so high they give the Great Hall a run for its money.
I haven’t been here in about two years — not since the random afternoon Owen and I ducked inside to avoid a rainstorm and wound up wandering the galleries. After-hours, the museum evokes an entirely different vibe. Gone are the bustling groups of schoolchildren on field trips; absent are the lines of impatient visitors waiting to purchase tickets; the overwhelmed mothers struggling with strollers at the coat check room.
The overhead lights have been dimmed. A classic Frank Sinatra song croons through the air. The customer service desk has been transformed into a full-service bar with uniformed servers mixing cocktails and pouring hundred-dollar bottles of champagne into glass flutes. On the far side of the room, orderly rows of chairs face a small platform with a waiting auctioneer’s podium.
There’s over an hour until the auction begins, so no one has yet taken their seats or claimed their bidding paddles. Germania’s glitterati mill about, making small talk and trading gossip, their eyes constantly roving in their sockets as they scope out new arrivals and appraise fashion choices.
A low-frequency chord of curiosity reverberates through the air as soon as we step inside.
She’s here.
The queen.
It’s her.
Every head swings our direction. There was a time when the sheer intensity of their attention, the way they seem to pick apart my every detail — from the fitted lavender cape dress to the matching streak in my hair to the heeled suede booties on my feet — would’ve been enough to bowl me over.
That time is gone.
My shoulders are square. My eyes are level. I meet their stares with calculated confidence, waiting until their heads bow one by one, a customary show of respect for the arrival of their reigning monarch.
“I don’t know why I worried anyone would be gossiping aboutmyrecent drama tonight,” Chloe murmurs under her breath. “I might as well be invisible, standing next to you.”
“Take it as a blessing.”
“Oh, trust me. I do.”
Before we can take a single step, a middle-aged woman in a burgundy suit materializes in front of us, her head deeply inclined in deference.
“Your Majesty, thank you for coming. It’s an honor to have you here. I’m Melinda Sears, Executive Directer here at the Germanian Museum and organizer of this little event.”
“It’s my pleasure to attend. I appreciate your efforts to support the victims’ families.”
“I hope you’ll take some time to enjoy the exhibits before the auction begins. We have a fascinating new collection of early Renaissance paintings, along with a rare Picasso on loan from the Louvre… if you’re interested, I’d be more than happy to take you on a personal tour. We have such exciting plans for future expansion, including a new wing of traditional Germanian art… With your royal patronage, we could turn those plans into a reality.”
I smile at her thinly-veiled money grab. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly monopolize you — I’m sure you’re very busy tonight. We’ll find our own way around.”
“But Your Majesty—”
“Thank you again for the invitation, Director.”
“Y-yes, of course…” she says weakly as I step deftly around her and start walking.
“You’ve gotten better at this,” Chloe notes, falling into step.
“At what?”
“Swimming with the sharks.”
“I didn’t have much choice in the matter. My options were either get eaten or grow teeth of my own.” I nod gratefully as Galizia hands me a glass of much-needed champagne — no doubt already scanned and sampled for all manner of neurotoxins. It tastes like stars on my tongue.