Arthur’s technician, a quiet man who went by the name of Marcus, brought me a small, heavy silver brooch.

“The microphone is hidden inside the setting of the pearl,” Marcus explained, his voice flat. “It has a range of ten feet. The signal will feed directly to our van outside the venue.”

“And the override device for the broadcast?” I asked.

He handed me a small USB drive, no larger than my thumb.

“Plug this into the main media switcher in the control booth,” Marcus said. “It will bypass their firewalls and give us remote control over the projector screens.”

I took the drive, its plastic edges digging into my palm.

By Thursday evening, a heavy fog had settled over the East River.

I dressed in a long, dark emerald gown that Arthur had sent to my apartment.

The silver brooch was pinned to my lapel, cold against my chest.

A black town car arrived to pick me up at seven o’clock.

The drive to the museum was silent, the city lights blurred by the thick mist outside.