“Since you’re so curious, I went to St. Margaret’s. An all-girls boarding school in SoTo,” she volunteered, hoping to redirect Brice’s attention.

“I have to say I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have pegged you as the boarding school type.”

Calliope’s thoughts turned inexplicably to Justine Houghton. She’d probably spent her teenage years at a boarding school, being disciplined and monitored—while Calliope had traveled the whole world. And now she was here, spinning on an underwater dance floor, surrounded by sumptuous gowns and laughter and the unmistakable flash of diamonds.

It was clear to Calliope which of them had come out on top.

“I’m not really the type to do anything,” she answered Brice.

He smiled slowly, his hand skating lower down her dress. “I’m aware. You’re nothing like the girls I usually meet.”

“I remember, all the mysterious girls you meet on your travels.” As they turned slowly about the dance floor, Calliope felt the gazes of other couples brushing over them like a hand tracing down her cheek. She gave her head a vain toss, letting her hair spill over one shoulder, and bared her teeth in a smile.

But then she felt Brice’s eyes on her again, and it seemed that he could read straight through every movement of her body. Her smile became less fierce. “Where do you go all the time, anyway?” she challenged. She doubted he’d traveled anywhere she hadn’t also been. She was a professional.

“Everywhere. I’m a walking cliché. The boy who inherits lots of money, then promptly attempts to spend it all on expensive trips and gifts to himself.”

He’d delivered the line with styled indifference, yet for some reason it seemed melancholy to Calliope. She wondered what he would say if he knew that she did the same thing, just with other people’s money. “Why is that?”

Brice shrugged. “I guess it’s what happens when you lose both parents at age sixteen.”

Calliope’s breath caught. “Oh,” she managed, a little stupidly. Why hadn’t she caught that on the feeds when she’d stalked him earlier? She was losing her edge, she thought; but everything to do with Brice was making her feel muddled and uncertain. She had a panicked sense that she’d missed a lot about him. She needed to be careful.

Just then, Atlas stormed past. Calliope wavered. This was her chance—Atlas was here and alone, no Avery to interfere. It would be the work of a moment to go strike up a conversation with him, pick up their flirtation from earlier tonight.

Brice hadn’t missed the way her eyes darted instantly toward the other boy. “Really? You and Fuller? I wouldn’t have guessed.” He shook his head disappointedly. “I just don’t understand what all you girls see in him.”

Calliope summoned her most imperious look, the one she’d learned from Justine all those years ago. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she declared. And what did he mean by “all you girls”? Just how many had Atlas been involved with, exactly?

“He’s too boring for you,” Brice went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. He’s just plain vanilla, and you’re so … complicated.”

This was exactly why she shouldn’t be spending time around Brice. He was too insightful, too careful and calculating; nowhere near emotional or naïve enough to fall for a con. If anything, he was so observant that he might have already realized what she was up to.

She needed to get away, before it was too late.

“I don’t know what you mean. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Calliope said stiffly, and beelined in the direction she had last seen Atlas.

He was standing alone at a high-top table, nursing a drink, hunched over as if to ward off anyone who might consider approaching. Calliope squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.

“Hey there,” she murmured, sidling over.

Atlas seemed momentarily bewildered, as if he’d forgotten where he was. Then his face broke out into that familiar off-kilter smile, a little wider than usual. “Calliope. How’s your night been?”

“Informative,” she said mysteriously. “What about yours?”

“Not what I expected.” He was still glancing down into his drink. He wasn’t even looking at her, she thought in mounting frustration, and if he didn’t ever look at her, how would he notice how gorgeous and alone she was, right now when he seemed to need someone most?

There was only one thing to do. Calliope reached across the table for Atlas’s drink and drained it in a single sip, lifting her head so that he could admire the arcing curve of her neck, letting her eyes flutter sensually closed. The drink was very strong.

She set the empty glass down on the table with more force than was necessary. Atlas startled at the sound. Well, at least something had finally gotten his attention.

“Sorry, I was thirsty.”

“Clearly,” Atlas replied, though he didn’t sound particularly angry. He lifted a shoulder toward the bar. “Want a refill?”

Calliope followed as he ordered them another round of drinks, a little surprised at how quickly he worked through his second glass. She didn’t remember him drinking like this in Africa. It is a party, she told herself, and yet she couldn’t help wondering what was bothering him. He’d seemed so much happier over the summer. She had a feeling that something—his family, probably—was holding him in New York, keeping him from ever really leaving for good, when this wasn’t where he truly belonged.

She shook off the sudden and uncharacteristic burst of introspection. Atlas was here now, which was all that mattered to her.

“Want to dance?” she suggested.

Atlas looked back up at her, and Calliope knew at once that something had changed; her instincts could sense it in the air between them like a shift in the weather, like when they’d been sitting on the ridge back in Tanzania and night began to settle its folds around them.

He didn’t say anything as Calliope led him purposefully onto the dance floor.

When she moved his hands onto her hips, he responded by pulling her closer, circling her back. His grip was warm on her bare skin.

After a while she whispered, “Take me home?” in Atlas’s ear. He nodded, slowly. She took his hand and led him up the stairs—he stumbled a little; he might be drunker than she realized—and crossed the pier to hail a waiting hover. Perfect. Now she would be able to scope out their apartment, start planning what she could take from them. Maybe even take something now, without anyone noticing.

She typed in the Fullers’ address, watching for a reaction from Atlas. When he didn’t protest, she lowered her mouth to his and reached for the buttons of his jacket in the semidarkness, unfastening each one with a brutal, determined energy.

It made her feel surprisingly vindicated, proving that the only boy who’d ever rejected her wanted her after all. Finally. It was about damn time.

LEDA

IT WAS LATE—late enough that Leda wasn’t even sure whether Watt was still here. She circled the fringes of the party, clutching a pineapple cocktail so tightly that her fingers had hardened into claws around it. She hadn’t even wanted this drink, but some passing waiter had handed it to her, and Leda quickly learned that there were even more waiters walking around with pitchers, refilling her fluted glass every time she took a couple of sips. She’d begun to revise her opinion of the stuff. It might be sickeningly sweet, but at least it was never empty.

She reached up and touched her hair, which was falling in sweaty curls down the back of her neck. The old familiar fear was prickling at her again, the panic that no matter what she did, she would never be pretty enough, clever enough, enough enough. And on top of it was the newer, even sharper fear that someone would learn what she’d done on the roof and her life would come crashing down in a million fiery pieces.

She wasn’t sure why she’d gotten so upset earlier, except that Watt had been acting genuinely nice to her, and she knew it all must be an act because he hated her. How could he not? After everything she’d done to him, drugging him and tricking him and blackmailing him into attending this stupid party, he must wish he’d never met her in the first place.