But although Jack had reconciled himself to the truth of his family, questions remained: what was The Committee hiding? Had a Silver Blood truly returned? His father acted as if the entire situation were completely resolved, since the killings had abruptly stopped several months ago.
Charles sighed. “I simply told her that her journey to Venice would be useless. She has gotten it into her head that her grandfather is somehow going to provide the necessary answers to all of her silly questions. But he shall not. I know Lawrence very well; he will stay out of it as he always has. She has embarked on a fruitless journey.”
Jack had guessed as much. He was aware of his father’s dislike of Lawrence Van Alen, and his newly surfacing memories confirmed it.
“Any more questions for me?” Charles asked.
Jack looked down at his patent-leather shoes, shined especially for the occasion. He could see his brooding reflection on their shiny surface.
“No, Father.” He shook his head. How could he doubt his father? Charles Force was Michael, Pure of Heart, the Regis. A vampire by choice rather than sin, and infallible.
“Good,” Charles said, brushing the lint off Jack’s black tailcoat and admonishing his son to stand up straight. “This is the Four Hundred Ball. Your formal presentation to our people. I’m proud of you.”
“Trinity, my dear? Are you ready?” Charles called from the living room.
Jack saw his mother, Trinity Burden Force, walk out of her dressing room and smile affectionately at her husband. She was dressed in a deep-red silk charmeuse ball gown with a sweetheart neckline and a plunging back. The two of them would open the ball with their entrance. But Jack knew from his father that Trinity had not been honored in this fashion in the past. In fact, this would be only the sixteenth year that Allegra Van Alen did not take her place by her brother’s side. The sixteenth year that Gabrielle would not lead the coven.
*
In an adjoining suite, Mimi Force was draped in a plush Turkish bathrobe, sitting on a gilt-back chair while a bevy of stylists and manicurists surrounded her, tending to every inch of her. Her hair was being brushed back into a graceful chignon, while another assistant held an industrial-strength hair dryer. Two of the most well-known makeup artists in the city were working on their final touches: one was brushing on lipstick, the other dotting her face with bronzer.
All the while, Mimi held a cell phone to her ear while she blew on her nails, painted a pearly “Socialite.”
“Oh my God, it’s a madhouse in here, sorry—I can’t hear you that well. What time did you say you guys were getting there?
“We’re at the hotel. Yeah, the penthouse. Sorry, do you mind? Excuse me, hello, you there,” she said sharply to the goateed stylist with the hair dryer. “You almost singed my ear off,” she said, giving him a dirty look. “Sorry, Bliss, I gotta go.”
Mimi flipped her cell phone closed, and the activity around her came to a standstill.
“Are we done?” she asked.
“Look.” The stylist handed her a mirror.
“Polaroids!” Mimi demanded.
One of the black-shirted assistants took a quick snap.
Mimi checked her reflection as well as the photograph. She studied herself critically, searching for any detectable flaw, no matter how minute. Her hair was brushed and styled to a burnished sheen, and framed her face like a golden crown. Her skin glowed; a dark smoky shadow brought out the green in her eyes, and her lips looked stained with freshly picked roses.
“Yes, I think that will be all,” she said regally, dismissing her entourage with a wave of the hand and without a trace of gratitude. Mimi considered it a privilege for them to work on her, not the other way around.
Soon after, her maid entered the room bearing a white cardboard box the size of a small child’s coffin. It had been messengered over to the hotel at the last minute, and Mimi clapped her hands when she saw it.
“It’s here!” her maid said happily, having been the unlucky recipient of Mimi’s tantrums at the fact that the ball was starting in a few hours and her dress had still not arrived.
“I see that. I’m not an idiot,” Mimi snapped.
She ran over to the box, laid it on the bedspread, and ripped open the brown parcel paper like a whirling dervish.
After leaving the Dior showroom, Mimi had complained to her mother about the lack of proper ball gowns, and Trinity had secured her an appointment at the Balenciaga atelier to meet with the head designer himself.
Over the course of the five-hour meeting, Mimi had rejected and dismissed countless designs, causing the designer to rip up more than several dozen sketches.
“What is it you’re looking for?” he had asked, completely exasperated. “You’re pickier than a bride.”
Mimi inhaled sharply. “Exactly.” She closed her eyes and saw herself and Jack together—during their first bonding. The dress she’d worn then was simple, white, merely a sheet, like a toga, and they had walked barefoot down the streets of Venice together, hand in hand, for the ceremony.
“White, the dress has to be white,” she murmured. “White like snow. Transparent like tears.”