Francesca

I MOVE AMONG THE CROWD, smiling, smiling, smiling, as though everything that just happened was an entirely expected part of the evening. Certainly the guests around me seem to think it was.

"That was insane!" I hear one say. "Her voice... out-of-this-world ethereal, and then BOOM! Felt like I was at Burning Man."

"Yeah, yeah, or on a come-up at Ushua?a. Ibiza this year was unreal..."

It's like wearing a mask, this smile, the muscle memory hewn through all my years of training. But my cheeks are beginning to ache.

And Owen is still nowhere to be seen. I need him by my side. And that moment in the speech was more than a little embarrassing. Where can he be? I try his mobile, but it rings out. It's making me a little uneasy...

And where on earth is Michelle, for that matter? I can't see her anywhere. She is supposed to be on top of everything. I think of the footage from the wine store last night. A bolt of pure rage shoots through me.

No. That's not the way.

Inhale for four, exhale for...

It's not working. I snatch a flute of cider from a passing tray. I'll just take the tiniest sip. This evening, it seems, I am going to have to let my standards slip just a little. Besides, apples are full of polyphenols. And it's barely more alcoholic than juice...

Everyone will be taking their seats for the feast shortly, they're already plating up the food in the kitchens. But something seems to have got into the guests...

I gaze around me. One woman is sitting alone on the grass a few yards away, staring at the palms of her hands. And just over there, a man has pulled one of my beautiful wicker stags over and appears to be... humping it, like a dog in heat.

Vandalizing shit.

I think I just whispered that out loud. What's happening to me? I clamp a hand over my mouth. Calm, Francesca. It's fine.

In for four, out for—

I can feel sweat trickling between my shoulder blades and seeping out around my hairline. I do hope my make-up isn't beginning to run. I took such time and care perfecting my celestial glow. I beat my fan and more white feathers float free, but I don't seem to be able to conjure any breeze.

Of course, bad energy can be quite powerful, too. Perhaps it's not the weather after all but the current of poisonous karma floating from Sparrow. I am very sensitive to such things. And she's here, somewhere. Close by. I can sense her. I can almost smell her. And yet try as I might I can't see her. Something odd happens as I search for her in the crowd. I'm almost positive it's a... trick of the eye, something like that. An effect of the deepening shadows. But every so often, looking between the white outfits and green coronets, I seem to glimpse a figure all in black. A masked face. Dead still in the midst of the movement and chaos of the festivities. Each time this happens I get a nasty little shock. Because they are always turned in my direction. Looking straight at me. I gaze around and see them now toward the cliffs, now near the long tables, now beside the willow arch. But no single person could move between so many different spots so quickly. It must be a trick of the eye.

Or there's more than one.

I feel a touch to my elbow and start with alarm.

It's just Michelle. About bloody time.

"Ah," I say tightly, "Michelle." Deep breath. "I've been looking for you, my lovely. Where have you—"

"It's all under control," Michelle says, obsequiously. "That first act—I have no idea how it happened, them gatecrashing like that. But you know, the guests really liked it. Everyone's saying how amazing it was. I think they assume it was all planned."

"Yes," I say, "but that's not really the point, is it, Michelle? Imagine if they hadn't been good? Imagine if they'd been terrible? The point is that I've put together a carefully curated evening—everything tailored to our guests, to what we know they will enjoy. We can't just have some local yokels blundering up to bash their drums. It's not good enough." I shake my head. "It's just. Not. Good. Enough, Michelle."

For a moment I think I catch a gleam in her eye: a little mutinous flicker of something. Defiance? Even excitement? But just as quickly it is extinguished and she is all subservience and perhaps I imagined it after all. "I'm very sorry, Francesca," she says, earnestly. "We will find them and ensure they are removed from the premises."

She is capable. I'll give her that. It's why I chose her in the first place. That aura of control. It is a shame.

"Good," I say. "Thank you Michelle."

She hurries off. I watch her go. As I do, a couple of guests pass me by, and I hear the man say to the woman: "Yeah, that's my favorite, the thing on the beach. Something so raw about it. Pagan. The rest of them are a bit pedestrian, wouldn't you say? A bit... Covent Garden piazza."

"Yes," his partner says. "That one pushes the envelope. I like that they've really gone for it. It's pretty creepy. But you know me, I love anything folk horror."

What?

The woman gives me a nervous glance. I realize I'm scowling at them. With a great effort of will I haul my smile back into place.

I'm not going to dwell on the Covent Garden piazza comment. Some people, sadly, have money but no taste; he's a forty-year-old man still wearing Yeezys. But what can they be talking about? I didn't order anything for the beach. I oversaw every single installation this morning. They're all up here on the lawns.

I try to suppress the fear rising within me as I make my way to the cliff edge. What is waiting for me down on the beach?