The Towering Sky

“Dare I ask, who is Alan Gregory?”

“The London Times food critic,” Calliope declared with a self-satisfied smirk.

Brice was intrigued enough to slide off his barstool and follow her toward the door. “And what happens when the chef comes out and realizes that I’m not Alan Gregory?”

“I guess he’ll have to be happy with Brice Anderton,” Calliope replied, the old theatrical smile creeping onto her face. “I know I am.”



AVERY



“I’M SORRY OUR date night ended up becoming a fashion show,” Avery apologized, stepping into yet another gown—her fifteenth, if she hadn’t lost count.

“Trust me, watching you get dressed and undressed dozens of times is a pretty good date night.” Max looked at her with unabashed approval, and a warm flush traveled from the base of Avery’s spine up to her cheeks.

“Can you zip me up?” She gestured behind her, and Max obediently pulled up the zipper.

They were in Avery’s bedroom, which had been completely taken over by racks of black-tie gowns: her various options for the inauguration ball later this month. Almost every designer in America, and a good number of international designers, had sent over a sample dress for her to try.

Avery wasn’t used to “trying on” dresses this way. Normally when she shopped, she projected clothing designs onto a holographic scan of her body; and then if she liked it, the garment was made to order. This was different, because she hadn’t ordered a single one of these dresses. The designers had custom-made them for her on spec, each hoping that theirs was the gown she would pick.

And Avery had to make up her mind now, because tomorrow a photographer was coming to the thousandth floor to photograph her. Apparently she would be the central image of next month’s Vogue download.

She turned toward the wall of her bedroom, which she’d clicked over to mirror mode, and studied the dramatic runway gown that now spilled over her. It was a bright, fluorescent orange.

“I look like a safety sign.” Avery gave a strangled laugh.

“The most beautiful safety sign in the history of intersections.” Max wrapped his arms around her to hug her from behind. His eyes were warm, catching the scattered light.

“Thank you, Max. For everything,” she said softly. He had been a source of steadiness throughout the turmoil of the campaign.

She was glad that he would be there next week, when she interviewed at Oxford. She could use a little of his unflappable calm.

“I love you,” she said impulsively and spun around to kiss him.

She kissed his cheeks and his forehead and the spot in the cleft of his chin that was darkened by a shadow of scruff: a rainfall of little kisses at first. Then she was kissing his mouth, and his arms had curled around her back, and it wasn’t so light anymore.

The sound of footsteps outside Avery’s door forced them quickly apart. “Mom?” she asked, hesitant.

The footsteps paused. “Did you need something?” she heard Atlas say, and her chest constricted, because she hadn’t meant to invite Atlas in at all.

“It’s fine. Sorry, I—”

But Max had jumped up, throwing open Avery’s door with an eager grin. “Atlas!” he exclaimed, oblivious to the tension between them. “I didn’t realize you were back! How are you?”

Atlas looked distinctly uncomfortable. He’d jetted off to San Francisco earlier this week, ostensibly for business, though Avery felt certain that it was to get away from her. She hadn’t even seen him since their showdown at the Altitude tennis courts.

She made a slow half turn toward the doorway, the voluminous orange skirts swinging widely around her like a bell.

“Hey, Max,” Atlas said evenly; and because she had known him since they were children, because she could read every last shred of emotion in his expression, Avery knew the meaning that Atlas was trying to convey with those two words. They were a peace treaty with her.

Max glanced back at Avery. “Do you mind if I head home now, Avery? I have so much studying to do before exams. Not that I didn’t enjoy the fashion show, but we both know I’m useless at this. You’re in much better hands with Atlas.”

“Of course I understand. Good luck.” She leaned forward to plant a kiss on the corner of Max’s mouth, deliberately ignoring Atlas. “Let me know if you want me to come by later for a study break.” There were volumes of innuendo in the way that Avery pronounced study break.

“Sounds great,” Max said with a wicked grin. Then he was gone, and it was just Avery and Atlas alone in her bedroom.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said quickly. “I’m sure you have more important things to be doing right now.”

“I don’t mind,” Atlas replied. Avery thought she heard a hint of challenge in that statement, but couldn’t be sure.

She glanced away. Her reflection bloomed like a flower from the mirror-screen, garish and repulsive, covered in all those yards of heavy orange fabric. She felt suddenly desperate to get out of the dress, as if it were literally crushing her. Avery reached behind her back to fumble for the zipper pull but couldn’t twist her arm to reach it. She let out a cry of desperation—

“Hey, it’s okay,” Atlas murmured, pulling down the zipper. He was very careful not to let his skin brush hers.