THE NEXT EVENING, at the World President’s Residence, just forty-four hours before the promised feast, the richest citizens of the city gathered for the annual Most Beautiful Night Gala. Decorated with strands of tiny lights, the Presidential Residence had a beautiful glow. In the circular driveway, luxury cars and official vehicles paused as excited guests stepped out. The walkway was flanked by guards in white uniforms standing at attention, their rifles held tight to their chests.
One couple held back, watching from the shelter of a hedge at the edge of the property.
“It’s been a while since we crashed a party,” said Lamont.
“Are you sure we’re dressed for it?” asked Margo.
Lamont had caught wind of the costume gala on his way back from watching the banquet being set up early that morning. He heard the police complaining about being assigned to patrol the streets during the event. And as dangerous as it was, Lamont couldn’t resist attending. It felt like a perfect scouting opportunity.
The guests arrived two by two, all clearly wealthy, poised, and elegantly dressed. The costumes were impressive—a dizzying mix of queens and magicians, painters and pirates, explorers and high priests. One man was dressed as a medieval jester, another as a knight, complete with lance. One young woman wore a daringly brief leather bustier and carried a whip.
In many ways, the whole scene resembled the parties that Lamont and Margo had thrown in this very house. Except that tonight, everybody was wearing masks. These privileged guests had nothing to fear from FR cameras. The masks were part of the costumes that had been required in the invitation. Unlike the crude plastic designs worn by the poor and desperate around the city, these masks were stylish and sophisticated. Most of the men opted for simple black satin, but the women had masks that melded into full headdresses—jeweled, feathered, and dazzling.
Lamont adjusted his own outfit—a black trench coat, leather hat, and red scarf. Once again, Jessica had surprised him with her resourcefulness. When he and Maddy described the Shadow’s costume, she’d rummaged through a secondhand market after dark and put together an excellent replica.
Lamont looked as if he’d stepped right off the cover of one of those dime-store novels. Margo was wearing her classic white evening dress, and in Lamont’s opinion, she had never looked lovelier. From a few feet away, the costume jewelry Jessica had scavenged for her could pass for real.
“You know we’re taking a crazy risk,” said Margo.
“It could be our last chance to figure out exactly what they’re planning,” said Lamont. “Besides, it’s a way to mingle in high society. Just like old times.”
Lamont lowered his simple black mask over his eyes. Margo straightened her pink embroidered version. Arm in arm, they walked past the gauntlet of guards, up the steps, and into the wide foyer. For a brief moment, they stood under the shimmering light of the crystal chandelier, the one Lamont had imported from Paris long ago. Margo took a deep breath.
“Lamont,” she whispered. “The house is still beautiful!”
“Yes, it is,” he said. “Except for the tenant.”
The parlor to the left of the entrance had been transformed into a cocktail lounge, where white-jacketed servers circulated with trays of canapés and champagne. To the right, in the oak-paneled library, a string quartet played Bach. Guests circulated through the marble-floored lobby on their way from one room to the other. From the balcony overlooking the main hall, a man in a somber dark suit looked down. He wore a colorful mask that mimicked a long, graceful bird beak.
Suddenly a pair of presidential guards appeared at the head of the staircase. A few guests tapped their champagne glasses for attention and the happy buzz of the crowd quieted down.
“It’s him,” somebody whispered. “He’s coming.”
Even for citizens of means, an invitation to the World President’s Residence was clearly a very big deal. The tingle of anticipation was electric.
Gismonde emerged from the upstairs hallway and stood at the top of the wide main staircase, pausing for effect. He was wearing a perfectly fitted pinstripe suit, with a mask in matching fabric. But the kicker was the robe—gold satin with an ermine collar. Breathtaking. Lamont recognized it right away. Margo grabbed Lamont’s arm.
“You were right,” she whispered. “It’s him.”
“Our humble host,” said Lamont.
Gismonde descended the staircase slowly to applause and glass-tapping from the guests. The hem of the robe trailed behind him on the carpet. He stopped on the second-to-last step, which left him at least a foot higher than everybody below.
“Welcome!” he said, turning left and right to take in as many faces as possible. “So many friends I don’t recognize! But of course, that’s the fun of it!”
Champagne-fueled laughter echoed through the foyer.
“Please,” said Gismonde with a gracious sweep of his arm. “Enjoy the evening—whoever you are!” More laughter.
“I’d like to slip him a mickey,” said Margo, straining against Lamont’s arm.
“You mean like he did to us?” said Lamont.
At the bottom of the steps, Gismonde mingled politely with a few guests bold enough to approach him. In the library, the quartet began to play again, a lively gavotte. As the music swelled, the foyer became an impromptu dance floor, with costumed partners gliding and twirling elegantly over the checked marble.
“Shall we?” asked Lamont.
“Do we really have time to dance?” said Margo.
“We always have time to dance,” said Lamont.
He took Margo by the hand and led her to the center of the floor. From the railing above, the long beak looked down. Margo rested her hand gently on Lamont’s shoulder and leaned in close so that her lips were just an inch from his ear.
“By the way,” she asked, “do you have a plan?”
“I think I might have some leftover dynamite in the basement,” said Lamont.
“So crude,” said Margo.
“You’re right,” said Lamont. “Too many casualties.” He glanced around at the guests. “Not that this crowd would be missed.”
Lamont leaned in to press his cheek against hers. He could smell her neck, her hair. He could feel her moving with him, gliding, bending, turning. For a few minutes, Lamont forgot everything except being with her. Margo was an excellent dancer, lithe and smooth. Sometimes it was hard to tell who was leading whom.
As they circled under the gleaming chandelier, Lamont felt a soft tap on his shoulder. He and Margo paused in midstep. Lamont turned. World President Gismonde’s face was just inches from his mask.
“May I cut in?” he asked.