In the hallway, Miles sits on the chair that Will made, his hair slicked back and his bow tie only slightly askew, as if he started to pull it away from his neck and stopped himself.
“Let’s get a photograph for your father,” Dr. Cliffton says to us, and I bend to Miles’s level. The shutter clicks, and just before I stand again, Miles whispers in my ear, “The finishing word is lovely.”
“Oh!” I say. “Thank you, Miles.” My surprise goes straight to my head, as golden and sparkling as the bubbles of Mrs. Mackelroy’s champagne. I wear Miles’s unexpected compliment for the rest of the evening like a spray of perfume.
More guests begin to arrive. The Mackelroys are followed closely by the Babcocks, the Fitzpatricks, the Percys, the Petersons, several other families of my classmates, and Viv, the woman who sells the flower necklaces. The house swells with people, and we spill out into the backyard, where the Clifftons have erected enormous tents. There is still an early spring chill in the air, but the tent begins to buzz with the warmth of our bodies and there is a basket at the entrance lined with pouches of Embers for people to take as they need.
Looking for Beas, George and I weave through vases heaped with pink and orange snapdragons and coral nerines, their colors rich enough to drink. I find her at the end of a long table, filling her plate from the spread of cheeses drizzled with honey and figs, sliced meats, fruits, tarts, and sweet cakes. A crystal bowl of punch crowns the end of the table.
Beas’s gown is silver, with beads that rim along the hem, and white satin gloves reach halfway up her arms.
“Aila, that dress,” Beas says, her mouth full. She daintily runs her gloved hands over her lips. “So much better than the old one of mine you were going to wear.”
“Yes, you look pretty,” George says, but he’s distracted. “Margeaux Templeton is here? Why?” he groans. “She’s glaring this way again. Maybe she’s here to take you out before the competition tomorrow.”
My stomach flutters with nerves.
“Let’s not talk about it,” I say.
Will and Eliza emerge from the house, and she takes him by the arm and leads him around the crowd to make conversation and shake hands, as if they are running for office. Will laughs, listens, and gets Eliza a glass of punch, but when he thinks no one is looking, he slips away to walk the back garden paths alone.
Beas catches me watching them.
“You know he made a promise to her when they were fourteen that he would bring her to a Christmas Ball,” Beas says, taking a sip of punch.
“What?” I ask, instantly flushing.
She raises an eyebrow. “And, with Mind’s Eye, there’s no getting out of old promises.”
I’m beginning to splutter that I don’t know what she’s talking about when Dr. Cliffton clinks his knife against his glass and gestures for George to come to the front of the tent.
The buzz of the party fades as George makes his way forward, and Dr. Cliffton’s voice cuts through the clear night. Mrs. Cliffton stands beside him, her eyes sparkling.
“Welcome, everyone,” he says. “Matilda and I are so pleased you all could join us tonight.”
“Hear, hear!” someone from the crowd calls.
“It is a bittersweet thing to welcome the people of Charlton to be with us tonight. But we believe that tragedy and hardships allow us a unique opportunity to draw together. Strengthen one another. Lift one another’s spirits.” He pauses. “I think this might help.”
He pulls a cover from the Victrola, and a hush settles when he opens his palm to reveal a Variant pouch. “The man who found these will do the honors,” he says, and pushes George forward with the pouch. As George measures out a handful, the air takes on the sudden weight of held breaths and mounting expectation. Someone in the crowd whispers, and someone else shushes him.
Dr. Cliffton sets the needle on the record player.
George dusts it with Variants. Then they both step back and wait. Beas squeezes my hand. I squeeze it back.
For a few long seconds there is only silence and tension. But then the first notes begin to infiltrate the crowd like sunlight through water. The people around me, dressed in finery and dripping with jewelry, strain forward to listen, eyes alight. Hands fly instinctively to mouths, and conversations hush. Then someone drops a glass on the bricks of the patio and it shatters.
A large cheer goes up when the music suddenly swells. The horns come to life in Benny Goodman’s “Jersey Bounce,” the air brightens with it, and people turn toward it in a wave. Some draw closer to the record player. The rest grab someone and start to dance, creating an improvised stage in the grass.
I’ll never forget, for the rest of my life, watching the intimate moment when a Disappearance is returned. Some stand with eyes closed or hands clasped, some sing along with the words, still others sit alone on a bench or at the edge of the fountain, wiping silent tears. George salutes Mrs. Percy when he takes turns bringing me and Beas out to the dance floor. “Not such a clod anymore, am I?” he asks us.
“You’re a regular Fred Astaire,” Beas says, and he beams at us through the steady stream of people coming up to clap him on the back.
Eventually the music turns drowsy, slow, romantic. I turn away from Will and Eliza, who are dancing near the tent’s center. I find Miles, and we sit together in the grass, under the starless sky, eating hard candies. I juggle them for him, the way I used to, until the song is done.
Every time the music ends and a new tune begins, the crowd bursts into applause. I make my way to the edge and catch Will’s eye from across the party. He raises his hand in a wave, and I wave back. “Hi,” he mouths.
“Hi,” I say from a safe distance, across the crowd. I know him well enough now to recognize when he is truly happy. His eyes are bright, his jaw is unclenched, and for the first time tonight I’m certain he’s no longer pretending.
The hour grows later, but the guests show no signs of leaving. It’s clear how much they all want to stay, to soak up the last notes of music, to gather it in the folds of their dresses and take it home in their pockets. In a way, they’ll be able to, because I’ve seen the small pouches set out in rows near the door—?from the looks of it, enough for at least one song for each guest. I stifle a yawn and consider stealing upstairs to my bed. But when I near the staircase, I catch a curious look pass over Mrs. Tripplehorn’s face as she speaks with Mrs. Fitzpatrick. It’s the kind of look that makes me suspect they are talking about me.
I’m instantly awake again. I creep closer, hugging the wall to stay in the shadows.
“She really does look just like Juliet. So much so that it’s unsettling,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick says.
My instinct was right. I crouch down behind a planter and fuss with the strap of my shoe.