Toy Soldiers (Helford #1)

(6) Magic

The ball was being held in a hotel’s ball room, the resort in and of itself an impressive structure built to look Romanesque at the same time that it managed to blend into the Parisian landscape around it. It had rounded arches and columns and it was a marble white, lit up by golden lights and the front steps cloaked with a red carpet for the occasion. The inside was just as well—the ceilings were high and it was decorated with mirrors as though in an attempt to look like Versailles, but it gave it a regal effect and made the large entranceway seem even larger. I followed behind Marci and Woodburn as they coasted down the red carpet, talking softly to each other in Russian as they walked, their heads bent close together. I could have easily eavesdropped, but I found that I didn’t care enough to. I glanced around at the foyer, and couldn’t help but to be both surprised and entertained by what I found there.

Stares. People were staring at us like we were worth a million dollars as we strutted past—and, for all they knew, we were. We could have looked a lot like celebrities as we walked through the lobby of a five star resort, cloaked in dresses and jewels.

Woodburn guided Marci and I up a set of stairs, ignoring when Marci muttered curses under her breath that had to do with her heels and her grace. When we reached the top of the stairs, two young men were already standing there at attention and waiting to take our coats, bowing their heads respectfully as they did. The high began to cloud in my mind—a high I received from moments like this, where I felt like I really was something. I tried to convince myself I was important, but pretending to be important enough to be waited on hand and foot was a whole other kind of importance, and one that wouldn’t be too horrible to get used to, eventually.

Marci grabbed my hand as we turned back to the door of the ballroom, grinning wickedly. “Have fun,” she murmured in my ear with a sing-song voice and I chuckled, shaking my head at her and extracting my wrist from her grip, letting her and Woodburn walk forward with her on his arm as a man standing at the top of the stairs to the ballroom announced their false names and their political ties. I trailed behind nervously, smiling slightly at the man reading the names. He looked at me stoically before waving me forward, not even bothering with any kind of pleasantries. I bit my lip and took to the stairs, glancing around the ballroom.

I was unaware as to what it looked like originally, but the setting that I stumbled upon was dazzling—the room was Olympic-sized, spanning over what had to be two or three of the large entrance hall of the resort but with lavish decorations that blew the welcoming hall to pieces. Mirrors with ornate frames and works of art were stationed on the wall and the ceiling was draped with white linen, ducking up and down and tangling around each other in an aerial display. A large section of the ballroom was taken up by the dance floor, where at the head was a small stage where a string orchestra was playing a waltz, a conductor flicking his wand with sharp, precise strokes through the air. The rest of the room was filled with circular tables with white tablecloths that could have fit close to twenty apiece comfortably, name markers sitting above each barren plate, the centerpieces consisting of an assortment of white flowers with striking orange wild lilies, small candles flickering around the vase and reflecting back into the glass, doubling the amount of firelight.

I felt my eyes widen despite myself. I had seen a lot of lavish events and dinner parties and I had danced to the point that my feet had blistered and bruised, but never before had I seen something with so much beauty and elegance that it took my breath away—and never before would I have thought that it would just be a room inside of a hotel in the middle of Paris. Never before had I thought that it would occur at a moment like this.

It became obvious to me that I was standing in the middle of the stairs and gawking out at the masterpiece before me, captivated to the point that I hadn’t even noticed that guests were filing past me and shooting me strange looks as they went. I jumped as I shocked myself into awareness, a true blush burning at my face uncomfortably as I cursed myself for my childishness, looking sheepishly down at my feet as I hustled down the rest of the steps. Thankfully, hardly anyone had noticed—a couple of important men sat chuckling into their champagne glasses, but most of the guests were too distracted with either appearances or ballroom dancing.