THE TWO WOMEN strode through the entrance to Bergdorf Goodman on the 880th floor, their four sharp heels making satisfying clicks on the polished marble. Neither of them paused at the sumptuously decorated lobby, its holiday-themed display holos dancing around the crystal chandeliers and jewel cases; tourists crying out whenever the reindeer swooped down toward their heads. Calliope didn’t even glance in their direction as she followed Elise up the curved staircase. It had been a long time since she was impressed by something as prosaic as a holographic sleigh.
The designer floor upstairs was scattered with clumps of furniture, each of them partitioned by an invisible privacy barrier and equipped with a body-scanner. Real gowns were draped on mannequins in various corners, for nostalgia’s sake. No one actually tried on anything here.
Elise flicked her eyes significantly at Calliope before heading toward the youngest, most junior-looking employee: Kyra Welch. They’d already preselected her online, for the simple reason that she’d worked at the store a grand total of three days.
Just a few meters away from the girl, Elise made a show of sinking onto a pale peach settee. She crossed one leg over the other and began scrolling through cocktail dresses on the screen before her. Calliope stood idly to one side and stifled a yawn. She wished she’d gotten one of those honey coffees from the hotel this morning. Or even a caffeine patch.
The salesgirl predictably hurried over. She had alabaster skin and a perky carrot-red ponytail. “Good afternoon, ladies. Did you have an appointment?”
“Where’s Alamar?” Elise demanded, in her most dismissive tone.
“I’m so sorry—Alamar is off today,” Kyra stammered, which of course Elise and Calliope had already known. The girl’s eyes skimmed quickly over Elise’s outfit, taking in the designer skirt and seven-carat stone on her finger, so high quality it was almost indistinguishable from a real diamond. Evidently she concluded that this was someone important, someone Alamar shouldn’t have upset. “Perhaps one of our senior sales associates can—”
“I’m looking for a new cocktail dress. Something showstopping,” Elise talked over the younger woman, waving at the holographic display to project this season’s designs onto a scan of her body. She flicked her wrist to scroll rapidly through the images, then held out her palm to pause at a plum-colored dress with an uneven hem. “Can I see this one, but shortened?”
Kyra’s eyes unfocused, probably checking her schedule on her contacts. Calliope knew she was debating whether to abandon her restocking duties in favor of this new, most likely lucrative commission.
She also knew that at the end of the shopping spree, after the various dresses had been instantly woven and sewn by the superlooms hidden in the back of the store, Kyra would haltingly ask for an account number to charge it all to. “Alamar knows,” Elise would say, with her sorry but I can’t be bothered shrug. Then she would walk out of the store, her arms laden with bags, without a backward glance.
Technically, they could have paid for the dresses the normal way—they did have money squirreled away in a few different bancs all over the globe. Though at the rate they spent, it never seemed to last very long. And as Elise always said, why pay for something you can get for free? It was the motto they lived by.
Elise and Kyra dissolved into a discussion of silk paneling. Calliope looked up, already bored, and saw three girls her age crossing the store, wearing identical plaid skirts and white button-downs. A slow smile spread across her face. No matter what country they were in, private-school girls invariably made easy targets.
“Mom,” she interrupted. Kyra stepped aside for a moment to give them some privacy, but it didn’t matter; Calliope and her mom had long ago established a code for situations like this. “I just remembered an assignment that I need to go finish. For history class.” History meant a group con. If she’d used biology class, it would have meant a romantic one—a seduction.
Elise’s eyes lit on the trio of girls and flashed in instant understanding. “Of course. I wouldn’t want you to lose your place on the honor roll,” she said wryly.
“Right. I do need to graduate with honors.” Calliope kept a straight face as she turned away.
She muttered “nearby private high schools” under her breath as she moved toward the accessories section, where the girls seemed to be headed. It only took two search results before she found the right one; she could tell since the students on the homepage were wearing the same lame uniform. Bingo.
She stationed herself in the girls’ path and began to studiously loiter: picking up various items, studying them as if actually considering them, then setting them down again. She was keeping an eye on the progress of the group, but still, she couldn’t help relishing the feel of a cool leather belt or a slippery silk scarf in her hands.
When the girls were only a row away, Calliope stumbled forward, knocking a whole table of purses to the ground. They fell across the polished wood floor like pieces of spilled candy.
“Oh my god! I’m so sorry,” Calliope muttered, in the posh British accent she and her mom had been using all week—not the cheap cockney one she’d grown up with, but a refined one she’d mastered after careful practice. She had purposefully tipped the table so that the clutches fell in the girls’ direct path; forcing the trio to either step carefully through them or kneel down to help. Unsurprisingly, they did the latter. Rich girls never left something expensive on the ground, unless they’d been the one to toss it there.
“It’s okay. No harm done,” said one of the girls, a tall blonde who was far and away the most beautiful of the three. She had such an air of sophistication that on her, the ridiculous school uniform was transformed into something almost chic. She stood up at the same time as Calliope, setting the last little beaded clutch on the table.
“You all go to Berkeley?” Calliope asked, in that crucial instant before they started to walk away.
“Yeah. Wait, do you go there too?” asked one of the other girls. She frowned a little, as if wondering whether she’d seen Calliope before.
“Oh no,” Calliope said breezily. “I recognized the uniforms from the admissions tour. We’re in town from London—staying at the Nuage—but we might move here for my mom’s job. If we do, I’ll be transferring schools.” The lines rolled easily off her tongue; she’d spoken them many times before.
“That’s exciting. What does your mom do?” The blonde spoke again; not pushy, but with a quiet, genuine interest. Her clear-eyed gaze was somehow disconcerting.