THE GUARDS STEPPED slowly toward Lamont, trapping him in a corner of the vestibule. Finding the girl could wait. The man was their main target. And they were obviously trying to prevent panic. In a crowded room like this, it would be too easy to shoot somebody rich and important by mistake.
Gismonde stood on the staircase, his hand clenched tight on the railing.
“Everyone please step away slowly,” said one of the guards. Lamont circled as if looking for a gap in the crowd. He twirled the long scarf off his neck and dropped it. He shrugged the heavy trench coat off his shoulders. He flipped his wide-brimmed hat toward the side, where the woman in the bustier caught it.
The guards took another step forward, their rifles trained on Lamont’s chest.
“Don’t move!” they said.
“Don’t blink!” said Lamont.
Then he disappeared.
Some guests gasped. Others applauded.
“Excellent!” shouted the man in the jester costume. “Well done!” He thought it was the best party trick he’d seen in a long time.
The guards rushed toward the spot where Lamont had been standing, their boots trampling over his empty coat. Gismonde stepped angrily across the room and pushed through the crowd, his gold robe swirling behind him.
“You had him,” he said to the guards. “Now find him.”
On the front portico, Lamont stepped aside while the guards charged past him. In seconds, the front lawn and driveway were alive with armed men. Lamont slipped through a hedge and moved behind the mansion—to a corner of the garden where the powder room tunnel exited. But where was Margo? She should be here already. He saw movement at the far side of the garden. A woman in red was walking toward him on the flagstone path. Lamont squinted into the darkness.
“Lamont,” the woman whispered. “Where are you?”
Lamont rustled a tree branch. Margo quickly walked over.
“They were looking for a white dress,” she said. “So I borrowed a red one.”
“What about the tunnel?” said Lamont.
Margo held up the broken handle.
“Faulty materials,” she said.
They could hear the pounding of boots coming from the front of the mansion. Lamont grabbed Margo’s hand and pulled her through the hedge that led to the rear gate. A minute later, they were on a dark side street, heading back downtown. Margo had ditched her elaborate headdress and Lamont was visible again, exhausted from the effort.
“I told you it was too dangerous,” said Margo. “We could have been killed—again.”
“I promise,” said Lamont, “next year I’ll turn down the invitation.”
Margo was clearly in no mood for Lamont’s little jokes and evasions. She stopped and grabbed him by the arm.
“Lamont,” she said. “You said it yourself—whatever is going to happen will happen tomorrow. What are we going to do?”
“We’ll be ready,” said Lamont. “So will Maddy.”
Lamont headed back down the street. Margo caught up with him.
“Maddy?” she said. “She’s too young. She’s been through enough. Leave her out of it.”
“I know,” said Lamont. “I should keep her out of it. But she’s as stubborn as you are.”
As they made their way down the dark streets, Lamont and Margo passed huge tents on almost every block, empty and waiting. Lamont stopped at a construction wall. He tapped the Most Beautiful Day poster that was tacked to it.
“See that?” he said. The type on the poster read “3:00 p.m.” “We have until then.”
“You always leave things to the last minute,” said Margo.
After a few blocks, the straps of Margo’s high heels started to dig into her flesh. They were a size too small. Not bad for dancing, but useless for hiking.
“Lamont, wait,” said Margo. He stopped. She leaned on his arm, reached down, and yanked her shoes off one at a time. She rubbed the sore red stripes on her feet and ankles, then tossed the shoes into a trash can.
“What are you doing?” said Lamont. “We’ve got miles to go!”
“Believe me,” said Margo. “I’m better off barefoot.”
For the first time in her life, she wondered how it would feel to ride a scooter.