house, leading to the impressive grounds at the rear.
Christian has a protective arm around me, resting his hand
on my waist, as we follow the green carpet with a steady
stream of Seattle’s elite dressed in their finery and wearing
all manner of masks the lanterns lighting the way. Two
photographers marshal guests to pose for pictures against
the backdrop of an ivy-strewn arbor.
“Mr. Grey!” one of the photographers calls. Christian
nods in acknowledgement and pulls me close as we pose
quickly for a photo. How do they know it’s him? His
trademark, unruly copper hair no doub一t.
“Two photographers?” I ask Christian.
“One is from the Seattle Times; the other is for a
souvenir. We’ll be able to buy a copy later.”
Oh, my picture in the press again. Leila briefly enters
my mind. This is how she found me, posing with Christian.
The thought is unsettling, though it’s comforting that I am
unrecognizable beneath my mask.
At the end of the line, white-suited servers hold trays
of glasses brimming with champagne, and I’m grateful
of glasses brimming with champagne, and I’m grateful
when Christian passes me a glass—effectively distracting
me from my dark thoughts.
We approach a large white pergola hung with smaller
versions of the paper lanterns. Beneath it, shines a black
and white checkered dance floor surrounded by a low
fence with entrances on three sides. At each entrance
stand two elaborate ice sculptures of swans. The fourth
side of the pergola is occupied by a stage where a string
quartet is playing softly, a haunting, ethereal piece I don’t
recognize. The stage looks set for a big band but as
there’s no sign of the musicians yet. I figure this must be
for later. Taking my hand, Christian leads me between
swans onto the dance floor where the other guests are
congregating, chatting over glasses of champagne.
Toward the shoreline stands an enormous marquee,
open on the side nearest to us so I can glimpse the
formally arranged tables and chairs. There are so many!
“How many
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