Mara Ellison kneanged its tempo before anyone else in the ballroom noticed.
The violins softened by half a breath. The cellos held a note longer than the conductor had intended. Even the harp seemed to hesitate, as though the musicians were listening for an instruction that had not yet been given.
Mara heard it because she had spent most of her life inside music.
Not beside it.
Not admiring it from velvet seats.
Inside it.
Her right hand moved almost imperceptibly above the armrest of her wheelchair. Two fingers rose. Her wrist turned. The melody lifted with them.
Then she realized what she was doing and quickly lowered her hand.
Nobody had seen.
At least, that was what she believed.
The Winter Restoration Ball glittered around her beneath the enormous chandelier of the old Marlowe Hotel. Hundreds of glass drops caught the light and scattered it across polished marble, silver trays and carefully arranged white orchids. Men in tailored dinner jackets discussed construction projects and charitable foundations. Women in jeweled gowns smiled for photographers near the staircase.
At the center of the ballroom, couples moved through a slow waltz.
Mara sat near the edge of the room at a table chosen by her father.
It had an excellent view.
It was also safely separated from the dance floor, the musicians, the crowded bar and anything else that might have made him nervous.
Richard Ellison called the arrangement convenient.
Mara called it exile with expensive flowers.
“You’re doing it again,” said a voice beside her.
She turned.
A boy stood near the curtain separating the ballroom from the service corridor. He looked about twelve. His dark jacket was too large across the shoulders, and one sleeve had been folded inward to stop it covering his hand. He wore black trousers that had clearly belonged to someone taller.
A pale stain marked one of his shoes.
He was holding something made from gold-colored paper.
“Doing what?” Mara asked.
“Moving the orchestra.”
She glanced toward the nearest guests. Nobody seemed to have heard him.
“I’m not moving anything.”
The boy studied her with the patient suspicion of someone who expected adults to deny obvious facts.
“You lifted your fingers,” he said. “The violins got quieter.”
“That was a coincidence.”
“You turned your wrist.”
“The conductor turned his wrist.”
“After you.”
Mara almost smiled.
The boy stepped closer, although he remained far enough away not to crowd her.
“Are you a conductor?”
“No.”
“Were you one before?”
“Before what?”
His eyes dropped briefly toward the wheelchair.
Mara waited for the familiar change in his expression.
People usually became embarrassed when they realized they had referred to her life as having a before and an after. They apologized too quickly. They looked at the floor. Sometimes they began explaining that they had not intended to be insensitive.
The boy did none of those things.
“Before you started sitting here pretending you don’t hear everything,” he said.
Mara stared at him.
Then she laughed.
It was not the restrained laugh she used during her father’s business dinners. It escaped before she could make it elegant.
Several guests looked in her direction.
The boy appeared pleased with himself.
“What’s your name?” Mara asked.
“Theo.”
“Theo what?”
“Theo Vale.”
“Are you invited to this ball, Theo Vale?”
“No.”
He answered without shame, but his fingers tightened around the folded paper object.
“How did you get inside?”
“My mother is working with the catering staff. I’m supposed to wait in the linen room until she finishes.”
“And instead you came into the ballroom.”
“I heard the orchestra.”
“That explanation may not satisfy hotel security.”
“It didn’t last time.”
Mara raised an eyebrow.
Theo looked toward the musicians.
“The conductor is rushing the second movement,” he whispered.
This time Mara did smile.
“He is.”
“I knew it.”
“How?”
“My grandmother used to play that piece whenever the neighbors became too loud. She said good music could defeat any argument if you turned it up high enough.”
“Your grandmother sounds dangerous.”
“She was.”
Theo lifted the object in his hands.
It was a small paper comet with an uneven tail. One side had been folded sharply, while the other curved outward. The gold paper had probably come from one of the gala menus or table decorations.
“Did you make that?” Mara asked.
“Yes.”
“Why a comet?”
“Because stars stay where people put them. Comets go where they want.”
“That is scientifically questionable.”
“It is emotionally correct.”
Mara laughed again.
Theo placed the paper comet on the empty chair beside her.
“For you.”
“Why?”
“You look like someone placed you here.”
The laughter disappeared from Mara’s face.