“You look lovely,” I said in what I hoped was a soothing tone. And for good measure, I lifted one heel—showing my dusty boots and a thoroughly indecent amount of calf. “At least your gown covers your ankles.”
“Hush,” Oliver groaned, stepping behind me. “Did you not hear me say that you look perfect? You do,” he glowered at me, “and you need to act like it. Otherwise that fellow checking invitations is never going to believe you’re the Mock sisters.” He pointed to a suited man directly beside the wide entrance doors.
“Right.” I hooked my arm in Allison’s. “We must pretend this is nothing more than the Continental Hotel back in Philadelphia, and those men are simply porters.”
She drew in a fortifying breath and set her jaw. “Yes. I do believe we can manage that. Come on.” She set off, her arm slipping from mine.
Yet before I could follow, Jie punched me lightly. “When you get inside, find a good hiding place. And all the exits—just in case things go bad, yeah?”
I nodded. “Right. A hiding place.”
“Come on,” Allison screeched at me, so I flashed a final smile at Jie and scurried off. My skirts rattled like palm fronds, yet I had only gone ten paces when a strange twist began in my stomach. I paused and glanced back, thinking it must be Oliver.
He leaned against our carriage, Jie beside him, and at my stare he lifted an eyebrow. “Heal the horse,” I whispered. “Sum veritas.”
He bowed his head, giving me a lazy smile, and I resumed my stride.
But the twisting began again, and with each step after, it grew more intense. Clearly it was not coming from Oliver . . . so from where? My forehead crinkled as I focused on the sensation. It was not unpleasant. In fact, it was quite the contrary. It was . . . exciting. As if I anticipated something.
I towed all thoughts of it aside, for I had caught up to Allison before the museum doors.
“Invitations?” said the mustached doorman. His suit was too large and his accent too thick.
Allison twittered. “We seem to have forgotten them.”
“Then I cannot let you in.” He bowed. “I am sorry.”
“What do you mean cannot let us in?” Allison gave a derisive snort. “I am Deborah Mock of the Mocks, and Professor Milton is expecting me.”
The doorman cringed.
“And I am Denise Mock,” I crowed, cocking my chin high with a bit too much drama. “Surely you recognize us now.”
But the doorman only looked more wretched, and it was clear he did not want to say what came next. “I really cannot let you enter without an invitation—”
“Of course you can!” Allison interrupted. Then she snapped toward me. “This is all your fault. You left our invitations at home.”
“Me?” I squealed, poking her a bit too sharply in the ribs—though it did make her mask of annoyance all the more genuine. “You were the one who was supposed to bring them.”
The doorman coughed. “Please, Mesdemoiselles, you are making a scene—”
“This is not a scene!” I screeched, wheeling on him. “You shall see a scene very soon, indeed.”
“Do not make me call the guards.” The doorman looked truly ill at the thought.
“Let them pass,” said a new voice. Allison and I spun around to find Oliver marching toward us. Arabic poured from his mouth, and his face was so red, even I flinched. His arms went up, down, and out. Then as if deciding the man was too stupid to comprehend Arabic, he shifted into French.
And as he stormed, presumably letting this doorman know exactly what he thought of him, his eyes slid to mine. A brief flash of gold, the tiniest of winks—maybe even a hint of a smile—and I realized exactly what he was doing.
My hand latched on to Allison’s wrist, and while Oliver directed the man’s gaze away from us, I yanked her along toward the doors, through the doors . . . and then inside—into a room of tiled floors and artifacts.
Allison’s breath burst out. “We did it,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming.
Do not get too excited, I thought. That was only the beginning. And with a scrutinizing eye, I examined our surroundings.
Enormous walls rose up, mosaicked and lined with glass cases and open shelves. Directly before us was an octagonal case filled with old relics. Beyond, surrounded by a low iron fence, was a small statue of a hunched old man with a cane. And behind him was a curtained doorway that led into an even larger room—and, judging by the sound of voices and a string quartet (to say nothing of the delicious scent of fresh bread), it was where the party was.
I moved farther into the room, and it was like a gulp of champagne. A pleasant buzz surged into my lungs and up my throat. Empowering and warm.
I met Allison’s eyes—her cheeks were flushed, her expression triumphant. Perhaps this feeling inside me was merely a shared victory at getting inside . . . but I did not think so. It felt too much like magic.