The grand chandeliers of the Crystal Pavilion had dimmed to a soft, amber glow, their floating crystals pulsing like dying embers as the first night of the seven-night gala drew to its elegant close.
The obsidian floor, once a whirlwind of swirling jewel-toned gowns and laughter, now bore the scattered evidence of hours of unrestrained joy—empty wine glasses, discarded fans, a single silver hairpin glinting underfoot.
The music had slowed to a languid waltz played by the all-female orchestra, strings sighing like lovers in the dark. Three hundred and twenty noblewomen moved through the space in tired but glowing clusters, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, gowns slightly askew from dancing and daring touches.
Yet something was wrong.
