The Dream Thieves (The Raven Cycle, #2)(72)

Them. Somewhere in there was Gansey’s mother, stretching her hands out to the hungry D.C. off-the-rack suit crowd, offering them treasure in heaven in return for votes. And Gansey was part of the sales package; there was nothing more Congressional than the entire Gansey family under one roof. Because those dripping necklaces and red ties were the captivated retinue who would fund Mrs. Richard Gansey II’s run for office. And those shiny oxfords and velvet pumps were the nobles Adam sought squireship from.

Good for them to see your face.

A laugh, high and confident, pierced the air. Conversation swelled to accept it.

Who are these people, Adam thought, to think they know anything about the rest of the world?

He must not let it show in his eyes. If he reminded himself that he needed them, these people, if he reminded himself it was only a means to an end, it was a little easier.

Besides, Adam was good at hiding things.

Gansey greeted the guests standing outside the door. Despite his previous complaint, he was completely at ease, a lion on the Serengeti.

“In we go,” he said grandly. And just like that, the Gansey who Adam had befriended — the Gansey he would do anything for — vanished, and in his place was the heir born with a silk umbilical cord wrapped round his blue-blooded neck.

The Gansey mansion spread out before them. There was Helen, now deliberately effete and decidedly unattainable in a black sheath, her legs longer than the driveway. What shall we toast to? Toast to me, of course. Oh, yes, my mother, too. There was ex-Congressman Bullock and there was the head of the Vann-Shoaling Committee and there were Mr. and Mrs. John Benderham, the largest single donors to the last Eighth District Republican campaign. Everywhere were faces Adam had seen in newspapers and on television. Everything smelled of puff pastry and ambition.

Seventeen years before, Adam had been born in a trailer. They could see it on him. He knew it.

“What are you two handsome devils up to?”

Gansey laughed: ha ha ha. Adam turned, but the speaker was already gone. Someone grabbed Gansey’s hand. “Dick! Good to see you.” The unseen violin wailed. The acoustics gave the impression the instrument was imprisoned in the chesterfield by the door. A man in a white shirt pressed champagne flutes into their hands. It was ginger ale, sweet and fraudulent.

A hand slapped the back of Adam’s neck; he flinched badly. In his head, he fell down his father’s stairs, fingers grabbing dirt. He could never seem to leave Henrietta behind. He could feel an image, an apparition, looming behind his eyes, but he pushed it away. Not here, not now.

“We always need young blood!” boomed the man. Adam was sweating, flipping between the memory of biting stars overhead, the fact of this present-day assault. Gansey took the man’s hand from Adam’s neck and shook it instead. Adam knew he was being rescued, but the room was too loud and too close for gratitude.

Gansey said, “We’re young as they come.”

“You’re pretty damn young,” the man said.

“This is Adam Parrish,” Gansey said. “Shake his hand. He’s more clever than I am. One day we’ll be throwing one of these shindigs for him.”

Somehow Adam had a business card pressed into his hand; someone else gave him more ginger ale. No, this one was actually champagne. Adam did not drink alcohol. Gansey smoothly took the champagne flute from him and placed it on an antique desk with ivory inlay. With a finger he slicked off a single drop of red wine that stained the surface. Voices wrestled with one another; the deepest voice won. Eight months ago we were in the same place as this on that campaign, a man with an enormous tie pin said to a man with an enormously shiny forehead. Sometimes you just throw funds at it and hope it sticks. Gansey shook hands and clasped shoulders. He talked women into confessing their names and then made them believe that he’d known them all along. He always called Adam Adam Parrish. Everyone always called him Dick. Adam gathered a bouquet of business cards. His hip smashed into a piece of lion-pawed furniture; Irish crystal jingled from the lamp sitting on it. A spirit touched his elbow. Not here, not now.

“Having fun?” Gansey asked. It did not sound as if he was, but his smile was bulletproof. His eyes roved the room as he knocked back his ginger ale or his champagne. He accepted another flute from a faceless serving tray.

They moved to the next person, and the next. Ten, fifteen, twenty people in and Gansey was an embroidered tapestry of a young man, the hoped-for youth of America, the educated princeling son of Mrs. Richard Gansey II. The room adored him.

Adam wondered if there was a true smile among this herd of wealthy animals.

“Dick, finally, do you have the keys to the Fiat?” Helen came close to them, eye to eye with Gansey in a pair of black pumps that were sensible on every other woman in the room and unreasonably sexy on her. She was, Adam thought, the sort of woman Declan was always trying to obtain, not realizing that Helen was not the obtainable sort. You could love the sleek, efficient beauty of a brand-new bullet train, but only a fool could imagine it would love you back.

“Why would I?” Gansey asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Every car is blocked in except that one. Those idiot valets.” She tipped her head back and looked at the tree-painted ceiling; to Adam, the intricate branches seemed to be moving. “Mom wants me to do a booze run. If you come with, I can use the HOV lanes and not spend the rest of my life getting wine.” She noticed Adam. “Oh, Parrish. You clean up well.”