I switched it on. The little green light glowed.

I walked past Dr. Marren, who was now leaning against the wall, clutching his wrist.

Grace followed me out of the booth and down the narrow spiral staircase.

The air in the corridor was cool, smelling of old wood and floor wax.

We reached the mezzanine level, looking down over the grand ballroom of Aster Hall.

Hundreds of guests in tuxedos and evening gowns stood in silence.

All eyes were fixed on the screen showing the ten-million-dollar transfer.

Harrison was trying to laugh, a dry, nervous sound.

“It seems we have a technical glitch,” Harrison said into his microphone.

“Please ignore the screen. Our media team is correcting it now.”

I stepped to the edge of the mezzanine railing.

I raised the microphone to my lips.

“It is not a glitch, Harrison,” my voice echoed through the high ceilings of the ballroom.

The entire crowd turned their heads upward.

Harrison looked up, his eyes widening.

Sloane Whitaker stood next to the stage, wearing my mother’s Celestia gown.

The silver silk of the dress caught the light, but it looked wrong on her.