She stood up and started toward the living room door.

“You’re going out.” Livya’s voice was trenchant with accusation.

Calliope tossed her hair over one shoulder in cool unconcern. “I’m going to the hospital to read in the children’s wing. You’re welcome to join me,” she added. It was risky, but Calliope knew that Livya had her violin tutor tonight.

“Maybe next time. If there is a next time,” Livya replied in a tone that indicated her clear disbelief. Calliope didn’t let it slow her down.

She had never been to the Captain’s Bar at the Mandarin Oriental before. Which was unusual, given that Calliope prided herself on knowing all the hotel bars in every city she had ever visited. But this wasn’t her typical sort of bar. She cast a low, pioneering glance around its deep leather couches and burnished silver mugs, covered in warm shadows. In the corner, a woman in a black gown sang a throaty ballad, something poignant and full of longing.

Yes, everything was high-end and expensive, but definitely not young or glamorous. This was the type of bar intended for serious conversation or serious drinking, or both.

She positioned her elbows on the varnished surface of the bar and took another sip of her champagne, waiting for Brice. He had flickered to tell her that he was running a few minutes late. Not that Calliope really minded. There was something fun about sitting alone at a bar—the way her feet dangled over the edge of the barstool, making it feel as if she were floating. The soft layers of noise, the choreographed dance of the bartenders moving back and forth. The bubbles in her champagne glass rose in an eager stream to the surface, reminding her of the bubbles from the wisher. She felt incognito in a pleasant, tingly way.

“Sorry I’m late.” Brice slid onto the barstool next to her.

“I don’t mind. I actually like sitting alone at hotel bars.”

“Because of the excellent people watching?” Brice nodded at their mostly empty surroundings.

Calliope shrugged. “No one expects anything of you at a hotel—no one cares who you are or where you came from. I’ve always thought of hotel bars as miniature foreign embassies. A place you can seek asylum, if you need it.”

“I can’t imagine you needing to run from anything,” Brice joked, at which Calliope fell silent. She had run away from every place she’d ever visited, hadn’t she?

Brice waved over a bartender. “Two ginger smashes,” he ordered, and pushed Calliope’s champagne to one side. “If you’re coming to the Captain’s Bar, you should do it right.”

Calliope tossed her head, letting her earrings dance. “I believe it was Napoleon who said that champagne is never a bad idea.”

“You’re quoting a notorious dictator. Why am I not surprised,” Brice deadpanned, and Calliope laughed.

Their drinks arrived in a pair of enormous silver tankards. They were a deep amber color, made with crushed ice and a stick of ginger wedged at the top.

Calliope leaned forward to take a sip of the cocktail. It was sweet and spicy all at once. “Did you know these mugs are actual sunken treasure?” she heard herself say. “Apparently they sat for centuries on the ocean floor before the Mandarin retrieved them from the wreck of a Spanish galleon.”

“What a fantastic story. It would be even better if it were true.” Brice lifted an eyebrow. “You’re very good at making up stories.”

Calliope felt instantly foolish. She shouldn’t be doing this, letting her compulsive lying streak get the better of her. She was more of a professional than that.

“I was thinking we could do dinner at Altitude, if that works for you,” he went on, after a moment.

Calliope bit her lip. Altitude was one of the places that she and Brice definitely could not go. Far too many people there knew the Mizrahis—people who might casually remark to Nadav or Livya that they had seen Calliope out with Brice.

She opened her mouth to deliver some excuse, to say that she’d already been to Altitude twice this week and was sick of it. But the words congealed in her throat.

“Actually, it would be better if we didn’t.”

Brice tapped his fingers lightly on the table. His hands looked strong and surprisingly callused. “Okay,” he said levelly.

“It’s just—my family doesn’t want me seeing you. They don’t want me doing anything like this, really,” she added, gesturing to her outfit, a low-cut black halter dress and startling red paintstick. “They want me to be more like my stepsister.”

“And since when are you the type of girl who does what she’s told?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I just don’t understand why you’re trying so hard to be someone you’re not,” he insisted.

“You wouldn’t understand.” You don’t know what it’s like to constantly play pretend. To trade in falsehoods—false identities, false alarms, false hopes—all to gain something that you aren’t even sure you want anyway.

“Explain it to me, then.” Brice studied her, his deep-blue eyes shadowed with a question, and Calliope realized with a start that he might, possibly, care about her. She felt thrilled and terrified at once.

“My mom fell in love with Nadav, and it turns out he’s really strict. I don’t want him to realize that I’m not the girl he thinks I am, and regret marrying my mom,” she said haltingly. “I just want them to be happy.”