“What’s the occasion?” she asked, settling into the opposite seat.

“The occasion is, I’m taking my daughter out for tea.” Elise smiled, looking cool and careless in a printed sheath.

Calliope leaned back. “Every time we do this, it reminds me of Princess Day,” she said, her tone reflective, but not quite wistful.

Calliope had been obsessed with tea ever since she was a little girl, when she and her friend Daera would put on Justine’s hand-me-down clothes and serve each other water in plain white mugs, calling each other made-up names like Lady Thistledown and Lady Pennyfeather. Elise had picked up on the fixation and started an annual tradition, just her and Calliope, called Princess Day. It instantly became Calliope’s favorite day of the year.

On Princess Day, Elise and Calliope would dress up—sometimes even carrying Mrs. Houghton’s purses, or wearing her scarves or jewelry. It was the only occasion when Elise would let them do so—and go to the Savoy Hotel for its expensive afternoon tea. Even at that age, Calliope had known that it was willfully stupid of them to do something so extravagant, something they clearly couldn’t afford. But they needed Princess Day. It was a chance for the two of them to escape their routines and step into someone else’s life, just for a moment. And Calliope could tell that her mother loved it as much as she did: being the one catered to, for once, rather than the other way around. She loved being presented with a silver tray of delicate little sweets and being asked which she would like, and she would lift her ring-crusted finger and say in an imperious tone, that one and that one, and also that. Commanding someone else, the way that Mrs. Houghton constantly commanded her.

Calliope would never forget the way her mom had turned to her, that first morning on the train to Russia, when their old life was long gone, and their new one just unfolding. “It’s Princess Day, sweetheart,” she’d said.

Calliope shook her head in confusion. “But we had one a few months ago.”

“Every day is Princess Day now,” Elise had said with a smile. Not the pinched, forced smile she’d worn for so long, but a genuine, easy smile; and Calliope saw that her mother was shedding some terrible skin she’d been forced into, and becoming someone new. As the years went on, she would realize that Elise had never been happy in London. It wasn’t until their life on the road that she’d seemed to find her true calling.

Even now, tea was still their tradition, as cherished and as sacred as any church. Calliope loved the ceremony of it being poured, hot and steaming, into a shape-shifting china cup, the beautiful array of fluffy scones and clotted cream and fancifully cut sandwiches. There was something soothing about the ritual of high tea. No matter where you went in the world, it was always stuffy and traditional and comfortingly British.

Whenever they had a big decision to make, Calliope and Elise would do so at afternoon tea, at whatever five-star hotel they’d conned their way into. It was how they chose when to move locations, how much cash Elise should try to swindle from her latest boyfriend or girlfriend, when they should next get their retinas replaced. It was how they made every important choice, Calliope realized … except her decision to get involved with Atlas. That was the only real choice she’d made on her own.

Just then, a waitress with a turned-up nose and jaunty ponytail approached their table. She looked younger than Calliope. Actually, Calliope thought, she seemed familiar, though she couldn’t have said why.

“Good afternoon, ladies. Are you familiar with our tea menu?” she asked smoothly.

A holographic scroll shimmered in the air before them both, with the menu written in calligraphy. Calliope could see the edge of each droplet of ink, the glitter that seemed dusted over it all.

“We’ll have the classic tea tower and lemon water, no tea,” Elise said briskly, waving her arm through the scroll so that its refracted pixels dissolved into nothing.

The waitress smiled. “Tea is complimentary with your tower. We have teas from every nation on earth, and several off-planet as—”

“Whatever is your favorite,” Calliope said quickly, then lifted an eyebrow at her mom as the girl scurried away. “Come on, I know we’re celebrating something. What did this Nadav guy give you?”

Elise shrugged. “Show tickets, a funny little invention of his that tracks your heartbeat and muscle movements, nothing of any real value. But he’s asked for a family dinner soon,” she added, her tone lowering several octaves.

Calliope understood in a flash what today’s tea was about. She was being scolded—very lightly, with a lot of sugar and fanfare, but a scolding nonetheless.

“You want me to be friendlier with Livya.”

“I’m not asking for much. But it would have meant a lot to me, if you’d put in just a teensy bit of effort with her at the ball.” Elise sighed. “I thought you were going to play backup for me, but you went off, focused on your own thing.”

“I was with a date, Mom,” Calliope pointed out.

Elise threw her hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “I get it, I get it. I know you like running your own little side cons.” They aren’t little, Calliope thought, slightly peeved. “And I never tell you no, do I? I think I’ve been more than fair,” her mom went on.

Calliope shrugged. “Of course I’ll do a family dinner,” she promised, as if she hadn’t done a million of them in the past—some ending with a wedding ring, others not. She wondered how quickly her mom would wrangle a proposal out of this relationship.

But Elise wasn’t finished. “I was hoping that you could play a little less … loose, when we’re at dinner,” she suggested. “Act more like Livya.”

“You mean act boring,” Calliope pointed out.

“Exactly!” Elise laughed.

The waitress deposited an opulent display of treats on their table. It tapered upward like the real Tower, complete with a miniature sugar spire. “This is lunar tea,” she said, pouring a steaming mug of tea that smelled vaguely like aloe. “My favorite. It’s grown on the moon’s surface. The plants see a much weaker sun, so their growing season is twice as long.”

Calliope took a tentative sip from the mug, which, sensing the tea inside, had shifted into a golden half-moon shape. She immediately spit it back, disgusted by the bitter taste. The waitress pursed her lips at her reaction, as if holding back a smile; and Calliope suddenly wondered whether the younger girl hadn’t recommended the revolting tea on purpose, just to screw with what she likely thought was a pair of entitled, rude women.

It was the kind of thing Calliope would have done, if she’d been in that girl’s shoes. She glanced down at her chic printed skirt and the fuchsia Senreve bag perched next to her chair. Did this girl think of her the way Calliope used to think about Justine Houghton? But she was nothing like Justine Houghton.

“Does that waitress remind you of someone?” she blurted out, after the girl had walked away.

“I don’t think so.” Elise was reaching around the offending tea for her water glass, with a cheerful slice of lemon floating on top. “Now tell me more about your progress. It’s clearly going well, since you didn’t even come home until Sunday morning.”

“I’m not so sure,” Calliope said, her usual confidence faltering. She didn’t know what to make of the situation with Atlas. She’d tried to scout around the Fullers’ apartment a little, later that night, but almost all the rooms had no-guest settings on their doorways. And she hadn’t really been in the mood to steal a random antique off a tabletop. She wanted something bigger. She wanted jewelry, but she had a feeling she might never get any from Atlas.

He’d been perfectly nice the morning after that party, sitting and eating breakfast with her, even calling her a hover home. But Calliope could see that his mind was elsewhere. Maybe he regretted letting her come over the night before. Not that anything had even happened between them; Atlas had been so drunk that he promptly passed out, leaving Calliope to sneak around their apartment uninhibited. Eventually she’d come back to his room and found a T-shirt of his before drifting off on the other side of the bed, alone.