Sonata (North Security 3)

The black netting falls to the sides of the skirts, parting to reveal the red silk in its uncovered sheen in the middle. I have to admit it looks beautiful. Probably more beautiful if I didn’t know it was trying to be a bug. I’m not what you’d call an outdoorsy person. Perhaps it is more alluring with the hint of a story behind it. Much like a performance becomes deeper with a sense of character.

The three dresses look striking side by side—red, orange, and yellow. The color of flame. We’ll stand out in any gathering of well-dressed people. We’ll be the center of attention even before people know our names. Looking at Isa’s contentment I know that was the purpose. She leaves to consult with an army of stylists and makeup artists in the large dressing room next door.

“I can’t believe you went along with her,” I murmur to Bethany.

She laughs softly. “It was my idea. Remember, I’m a performer at heart. How we dress is part of that. How we hold ourselves comes from how we dress.”

I look down at her plain tank top. Her black sweat pants are loose fitting and then cinch at her ankles. It’s a look that can only look good on someone with an incredible body, which she definitely has. “How are you holding yourself now?”

“This isn’t a performance. Think of this room like backstage. In that ballroom downstairs, there will be representatives from the European record label. There will be investors from the theater, including the one who’s the creative director of our show. Not to mention half of France’s high society, specifically the kind of people who patronize classical music.”

Nervousness tightens my throat. Even the idea of playing the violin again makes me seize up. Tonight I won’t be playing, but it will be the precursor. The chug-chug-chug to the top of the roller coaster that I don’t want to be on. “So I should hold myself with humility in request of their patronage?”

“Oh God no. You should be haughty and intellectual and snobby.”

She looks serious. “Snobby?”

“They want to know that there’s a secret club to the world of classical music. And that you’re part of it. You’re their entrance. You’re their only hope of being part of it.”

“There’s no secret club. Or if there is, I’m not part of it.”

A musical laugh. “You are the club, Samantha.”

“Have you been having conference calls with Liam? He’s convinced I’m going to be the star of the show. I mean I expect that kind of optimism from my agent, but you guys know me. I’m just a regular person.”

Bethany leads me to a table that’s laid out with a large breakfast. “Have a croissant, regular person,” she says, piling fresh fruit onto her plate.

I should probably go for fruit or oatmeal or something healthy. The pile of croissants looks flaky and delicious, though. Bethany knows me too well. I grab a croissant and tear a piece to eat. Yes. Buttery croissants are the best. My mouth is still full of savory flavor when Bethany holds up her phone. It’s my Instagram account. I recognize the photo from the tour. Violinist. Croissants. Eiffel tower. Your favorite child prodigy all grown up. Music emojis complete the bio. The account had been active during the tour, but I assumed it had been abandoned when we left. Apparently not. There are words of affirmation and pictures from around the world, as if I were sightseeing instead of hiding from people trying to kill me. It’s the number at the top right that makes my heart stop. My mouth drops open. “One million followers? Who are these people?”

“They’re your fans,” Bethany says before eating a piece of pineapple.

Somehow I’ve become a little celebrity. When did this happen? How?

Suddenly the concert at Palais Garnier makes more sense. As does the ball tonight filled with high society and actual royalty. Feeling almost numb with wonder, I click the link in the bio to the tickets being sold for the concert. It’s my name headlining the tour. My silhouette holding a violin that’s the main image. The concert is already sold out. Resale tickets are going for thousands of euros each.

The career I thought I would have to spend decades building, the one I thought I’d walked away from… it’s waiting for me downstairs. It’s already mine.

Liam

I watch the ball from the edges of the room, strolling behind large potted plants and wide columns. A few of the guests are clients of North Security. Most of them are strangers.

“Do you really think they’d make a move here?” Josh asks in the earpiece. I can see him strolling along the ballroom on the opposite side. We have men stationed outside the chateau and throughout the public rooms. We’re taking point on the ballroom itself.

“No, but I think they’ll attend. Why wouldn’t they?” Any chance to survey your opponent was important, especially if your opponent had been in hiding for months.

“That assumes they can get an invitation.”

The ball is definitely exclusive, but someone who has the power to destroy a classified file in the US government has high connections. “Tell me about the woman from the train.”

There’s quiet over the radio. My body tightens. There was something there. Damn it. He clears his throat. “Anthony followed her off the train and lost her on the Avenue du Choisy. We found her ticket information. Her passport was a fake.”

“Christ. I should have kept her.”

“The French government wouldn’t have taken kindly to our holding people hostage on trains,” Josh says dryly. “We wanted to come in without too much attention.”

“And yet we had someone’s attention.”

“Someone in Frans’s entourage?”