Zara steps into the Plaza. A man rushes to take her coat. She follows Kestrel’s lead, pretending she’s done this a hundred times before, but Zara is sure that something in her eyes, the twitchy corners of her smile as the coat-check man calls her gorgeous, gives her away.
She can’t really be here.
There is nothing real about this.
The grand ballroom at the Plaza is impressive, classical, edged with gilt. It looks like it was ripped out of a little girl’s dream and set down gently in the heart of New York. But it’s not just the room — it’s the people staring at Zara. Yelling, Over here, Echo! Taking her picture as she works against a well-trained impulse to hold herself tight across the stomach.
It’s the thought of Eli, out there somewhere. Eli, who kissed her.
When the crowd parts, Zara thinks it will be Eli waiting for her, but it’s not, of course. It’s Leopold, smiling broadly. It feels like he’s showing her what kind of smile he expects her to have on her own face all night. He hooks his arm through hers, and a little bit of the brightness in Zara’s vision fades, even though the room is studded by the flashes of photographers.
The gala is like rich food — after a few bites, it’s too much. At nine thirty, Zara loves it. By eleven thirty, her picture has been taken roughly ten thousand times. Her smile muscles are threatening to give out. Her sore feet claw for attention.
And there are other disappointments. Zara had thought that by this part of the production, she would be surrounded by new friends. But as she looks around the room, she feels further away from everyone than she did on the day of the read-through.
Meg is detached from Leopold for once, looking elegant but forgettable in a long black dress. Barrett oozes from group to group, flirting with every woman he can find. Carl is stone-faced, and Toby is drunk. Enna’s understudy makes the rounds, smiling at everyone like this is just another production — like the woman she replaced didn’t die only a few weeks ago. Kestrel moves around the room in an endless circle. No sign of her secret date. Zara can’t stop thinking about the Xanax in the bathroom. She’ll tell Eli about it — if Eli ever shows up.
Zara can’t even escape to look for her. Leopold has been steering her around by the elbow all night.
Everything is wrong.
And the champagne isn’t helping.
“Have another,” Leopold says with a goading smile as the tray in the waiter’s hand passes in a circle. Zara has already downed two glasses — more than she’s had in her entire life.
She doesn’t know why Leopold wants her to drink. Zara feels his attention like a hand at her throat. She has to do what he wants or he’ll take Echo away. He’ll hurt her career. He’ll make Eli disappear. Like he did with Michael and Toby.
“This is my Echo,” Leopold tells yet another group of patrons. His vaguely European accent is stronger than usual. Some days it’s as thin as tissue paper.
“She’s utterly charming,” says a woman in a silver gown, as if Zara had said something and wasn’t just standing there, hanging on Leopold’s arm.
“Yes, she’s a breath of fresh air,” an old man adds as he openly stares at her body.
In the thick of rehearsal, Zara almost managed to forget that there will be audiences soon. They’ll be there at previews, which Leopold says are just glorified rehearsals, but people pay money to see them. Those people will look at Zara however they want. After they’ve heard so much about the play and bought a three-hundred-dollar ticket, they’ll feel like they own a little piece of her.
“Wait until you see the big reveal,” Leopold says to the patrons. The champagne is harsh in Zara’s throat. Maybe she’s had too much. She coughs, holding the glass away from her. This is the first she’s heard of a big reveal. “I’d say it’s going to be brilliant, but that’s for you to judge.”
People are laughing, and the sound swirls in Zara’s head. Leopold hands her another champagne flute. The crystal is breakable. It will shatter in her palm if she clutches it too tightly. “You know who’s brilliant?” Zara asks. “The lighting designer.”
She didn’t mean to say that. The champagne did it for her.
“Of course,” Leopold says. “Roscoe.” He hangs his head down. He is very good at looking mournful.
“No,” Zara says. “I mean, yes. But I was talking about the new designer. Roscoe’s assistant. Eli Vasquez.”
She really shouldn’t have said that. But she hates that nobody knows about Eli. Zara almost tells everyone about the lanterns, how beautiful they’re going to be. But the lanterns haven’t made an appearance at rehearsal yet. How would she know about them if she hadn’t been spending time with Eli, under the stage, alone?
Leopold is looking at her strangely now.
If she says one more word about Eli, Leopold will see the truth. She doesn’t know how he hasn’t seen it already — if he could tell she’s never been in love, wouldn’t he be able to tell that she is now? Because she can’t stop falling in love with Eli, even when they’re not in the same room. Even when Leopold is in the room, watching her carefully. Feeding her drink after drink.
The woman in the silver dress turns to Leopold, puts on a kittenish smile, and says, “People have been saying that these accidents have something to do with a curse on the Aurelia. It’s so dark and delightful.” Zara watched Roscoe die. She doesn’t know if she would describe it as delightful. “Is it true that the theater is cursed?”
That is a fantastic question.
“It’s true that people say so,” Leopold tells the small crowd in his most charming and enigmatic tone. “And what people say has a way of becoming true.”
“Mmmmmm,” the woman says, as if she’s savoring Leopold’s wisdom. The men in the circle nod like they know just what he means.
Zara wants to break free. She wants to find Eli and kiss her for an hour without stopping, then tell her the story of every moment they’ve been apart.
Leopold eases his link with Zara’s arm, somehow making it look as if she’s been the one holding on to him all night. “If you’ll excuse me, I should see to our leading man.” Zara sends a hunting look through the crowd, but Adrian is nowhere to be seen. Apparently he doesn’t have to be paraded around like this.
Leopold walks away. He gives Zara one more glance over his shoulder, as if he wants to be sure of where he left her. He blows her a kiss — not for the onlookers — a small, private tap of fingers to lips. Another test passed. Another lesson learned. She has a hold on one corner of the truth, and she’s peeling it back. Leopold loves her as long as she does whatever he wants. As long as she’s willing to be whoever he wants.
You are not Zara Evans.
Her hand goes, absentmindedly, to the necklace of keys. Kestrel tried to tell her that it didn’t match the dress.
Zara disagreed.
Eli makes her feel more like herself and more like Echo at the same time. How is that possible?
Zara makes one full turn of the room. No Eli. She checks her phone. It’s devoid of messages.
She sends a quick one of her own.
I’m in the ballroom wearing white and drinking too much.
Find me.
That was wrong. She shouldn’t have sent that text. They can’t be seen in front of all these people, together. In front of Leopold. But Zara can’t stay away from Eli all night. It’s not physically possible.
A hand comes down on Zara’s arm, and for a second she thinks that she summoned Eli just by thinking about her. But the hand is wrong — large and bony. Too much sweat in the canyons of the palm.
Zara looks up and finds Carl staring.
For a second, the world tilts, and she remembers the force of his body hovering on top of hers. His eyes are as blue as a painfully bright sky.
“We need to talk.”