Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(48)
The doorman cringed.
“And I am Denise Mock,” I crowed, cocking my chin high with a bit too much drama. “Surely you recognize us now.”
But the doorman only looked more wretched, and it was clear he did not want to say what came next. “I really cannot let you enter without an invitation—”
“Of course you can!” Allison interrupted. Then she snapped toward me. “This is all your fault. You left our invitations at home.”
“Me?” I squealed, poking her a bit too sharply in the ribs—though it did make her mask of annoyance all the more genuine. “You were the one who was supposed to bring them.”
The doorman coughed. “Please, Mesdemoiselles, you are making a scene—”
“This is not a scene!” I screeched, wheeling on him. “You shall see a scene very soon, indeed.”
“Do not make me call the guards.” The doorman looked truly ill at the thought.
“Let them pass,” said a new voice. Allison and I spun around to find Oliver marching toward us. Arabic poured from his mouth, and his face was so red, even I flinched. His arms went up, down, and out. Then as if deciding the man was too stupid to comprehend Arabic, he shifted into French.
And as he stormed, presumably letting this doorman know exactly what he thought of him, his eyes slid to mine. A brief flash of gold, the tiniest of winks—maybe even a hint of a smile—and I realized exactly what he was doing.
My hand latched on to Allison’s wrist, and while Oliver directed the man’s gaze away from us, I yanked her along toward the doors, through the doors . . . and then inside—into a room of tiled floors and artifacts.
Allison’s breath burst out. “We did it,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming.
Do not get too excited, I thought. That was only the beginning. And with a scrutinizing eye, I examined our surroundings.
Enormous walls rose up, mosaicked and lined with glass cases and open shelves. Directly before us was an octagonal case filled with old relics. Beyond, surrounded by a low iron fence, was a small statue of a hunched old man with a cane. And behind him was a curtained doorway that led into an even larger room—and, judging by the sound of voices and a string quartet (to say nothing of the delicious scent of fresh bread), it was where the party was.
I moved farther into the room, and it was like a gulp of champagne. A pleasant buzz surged into my lungs and up my throat. Empowering and warm.
I met Allison’s eyes—her cheeks were flushed, her expression triumphant. Perhaps this feeling inside me was merely a shared victory at getting inside . . . but I did not think so. It felt too much like magic.
Pushing aside the intoxicating hum in my chest, I forced myself to scan the museum further. To find the exits and a hiding place.
Amid all the glass cases were statues with hard faces and stiff poses. They were useless for hiding—too small and crammed together. But on either end of the entrance rooms there were more curtained doorways. I crept to the nearest one and peeked through. It was a long room lit by skylights.
Allison moved to my side, and I jerked my thumb into the room. “If we get separated for any reason, we’ll meet in there, all right?”
Allison nodded. “Next to that large stone thing.”
“You mean the sarcophagus? The one beside all those maces and clubs?” I squinted into the gloom. The sheer size and rectangular shape certainly suggested an Egyptian coffin.
Allison’s hand slipped into mine, distracting me. “Come on, before I lose my nerve.” She squeezed with bone-breaking strength. “And I daresay, I hope you are ready for a scene, for I fear I am about to make one.”
“And I daresay,” I said, squeezing back just as fiercely, “that if you can handle an airship crash and Hell Hounds, then a mere scene will be child’s play.”
She eked out a tiny smile, and we set off into the gala.
It turned out to an incredibly elegant affair. Cases and shelves were everywhere in the huge, high-ceilinged room, but they had been pushed aside to make room for a dance floor and small orchestra. Bright red and blue tiles blended into orange sandstone on the walls, the columns, the floor. Hieroglyphs and gold seemed to pop from the cases and shelves, but as far as I could see, there was no rhyme or reason to the placement of items within their displays.
Men and women in black suits and pastel gowns swept past us as we hugged the edge of the room and moved toward the center. My memories of the party at the Palais Garnier were hazy, but even that opulence seemed tame compared to this. Perhaps it was simply the Arabian atmosphere—that surreal feeling that I was in a completely different time.
But of course, the music was as Western as possible—a standard polka redowa—and the faces streaming past were no different from those of Paris or Philadelphia. Or rather, the wealthiest of Paris or Philadelphia.
Professor Milton was clearly a very important person.
And for some reason this amused me. As did Allison’s hand in my own. And the yellow glow of the lamps and dull murmur of voices. For some reason a giggle tickled my throat, and I had to clasp a hand over my mouth to trap it inside. There was nothing funny about this situation—was there? Yet I felt drunk off the moment.
I examined Allison, now awash in warm lamplight. She looked as determined as always. Yet unlike me, she did not look as if she might burst into laughter. I schooled my face into the same severe expression she wore: lips puffed out, chin up, gaze challenging.