Page 35 of Nobody in Particular

Waiters with appetizer trays are weaving through the crowd, and we grab a couple of pieces of hot finger food from them, but we hit the jackpot when we find a massive buffet table overflowing with cakes, pastries, and a chocolate fountain.

“Molly is gonna be so pissed she missed this,” Eleanor says. “She said last year the only thing missing was macarons, and look. A whole tower of them. I’m gonna steal her some.”

“You know she didn’t want to come, right?” I ask, just to check.

Eleanor stops smiling. “Yeah. I know.”

I realize too late that I was meant to play along and pretend nothing’s wrong. Because if we don’t acknowledge a problem, it goes away, or something.

Not far from us, Rose is standing with Alfie, talking to a middle-aged couple I don’t recognize. Alfie looks more or less like a model, all sharp jawline and perfectly coiffed hair, and he’s beaming and chatting and bringing the couple to laughter like he was made forthis. I would do anything to be confident like that. Rose is standing close-close to him, too. Like, right up in his personal space.

They look like a couple. Theyaren’tone, though, right? Surely I’d know if they were.

I’m so busy watching Rose, I don’t even notice at first that the king and queen have joined her.

King Edward is a surprisingly short man in person compared to how he looks in photos, with a receding hairline and glasses perched on his strong nose. He seems to be in a cheery mood, and he claps a hand on Rose’s shoulder while grinning. If the king looks happy, though, it’s nothing compared to the beam on Queen Maisy’s face. She’s dressed in jewel tones of deep blue, and her glossy brown hair is swept up in a simple chignon below a tiara. The queen is where Rose gets most of her features from. They’re as beautiful as each other. They look like fairy-tale royals, the kind you romanticize as a little girl, before you grow up and realize most royal families are made up of pretty normal-looking humans who just happen to have a glossy lifestyle.

Not this one, though.Normalis the last word I’d use to describe Rose.

Eleanor leans in with an urgent whisper. “Danni, Santi is getting a macaron. He’sgetting a macaron.”

This is actually my first time seeing Santi. Santi, it turns out, looks like any guy off the street, with a long face and thin, short brown hair. That’s the hair Eleanor spent half a day staring at? She must be down bad.

“Isn’t he incredible?” Eleanor asks, and I nod as enthusiastically as I can. “What do I do?” she asks, grabbing onto my arm. Before I can even answer, she steels herself and answers for me. “I’m going in.”

“You’ve got this. I believe in you.”

She takes three quick breaths, jumps on the spot, then casually walks over to the macaron stand. I shuffle closer to eavesdrop and grab a pastry in the process.

“Hola,” Eleanor says alarmingly loudly. “Soy un… una del nombre es ella Eleanor.”

My Spanish is shaky, so I only have a vague idea of what Eleanor just said. But from the look on Santi’s face, he feels the same, and I’m pretty sure he speaks Spanish.

“Hi?” he says.

Eleanor hesitates, and I start racking my brain for an excuse to rescue her if this goes south. Or south-er. “Wait, no. Ella nombre… del una… I’m Eleanor.” She beams and sticks her hand out.

Santi surveys her, and I hold my breath, but he takes her hand and holds it between them. Oh, thank god. “I’m Santi. You’re friends with the princess, right?”

I take that as my cue to leave. The only thing is, I don’t know where to go, exactly. I don’t know anyone, and the idea of introducing myself to the random rich people in the room—a ton of whom seem to be literal royalty—is, frankly, horrifying.

So, I sort of… work the room for a while. And by that, I mean I do aimless laps. When was that aerial show meant to start? At least that’ll give me something to focus on, so I don’t look so lost and out of place.

As I walk, I think of Molly, who must be feeling weird about being at Bramppath tonight, no matter what she thinks of Rose.Wish you were here,I text her.Eleanor’s smuggling you some macarons.

Her reply comes quickly.Omg love you both. Thank you. And have fun for me!

At some point, I end up at the mouth of a sprawling hallway. It’s empty here. Quieter. No one to glance at me, wondering who the hell I am and why I’m here. So, I start down it.

The marble flooring beneath me is dull gold, red, and forest green. On either side of me are columns covered in ornate designs of what looks like legit gold. Every few feet, stone-trimmed alcoves shelter priceless statues and vases. I steer clear of these. I would rather not get myself into lifelong debt by breaking one, thanks all the same.

I pass about a billion sprawling doorways, peeking into them as I go. It’s like a museum, room after room filled with rich tapestries, and vases, and statues. Antique armchairs, sturdy wooden desks, fireplaces and daybeds and violins and—violins?

My shoes squeak on the floor as I stop to get a better look. It’s not violins, plural. There’s a violin, displayed next to a cello—both of them standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. Farther in is an enormous gold-trimmed harp. And against the back wall is the most stunning grand piano I’ve ever seen in my entire life—and that includes the photos I put on my “when-I’m-rich-one-day” manifestation mood board last year.

I definitely shouldn’t be wandering into random rooms and touching shit, but it’s like I’m hypnotized. You can’t just see an instrument like this and walk past it like it never happened. Holding my breath, I run my fingers over the cold, dark surface. It’s a concert grand piano—a perfectly restored antique. It’s decorated with jewels, and it’s got a mother-of-pearl border. If I had to go fullThe Price Is Right,I’d guess it’s worth more than my house.

For the record, I’ve read “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.” I know damn well you do not waltz uninvited into strangers’ rooms and sit on their chairs and sleep in their beds and play their ungodly expensive pianos.

---