Page 77 of Chasing Eternity

Outside, a winter storm rages, but the girl remains elusive. There’s no lost labyrinth, and all the statues are here.TheMagician,TheHigh Priestess, andTheWheel of Fortune—three silent guardians shining under the silvery glow of the moon—the embodiment of Arthur, Elodie, and me—like some kind of twisted triad, an unholy trinity, bound by fate and shrouded in secrets.

As I gaze upon them, I’m reminded of the intricate dance of destiny and free will, of the shadows that lurk behind even the most enlightened intentions.

A sudden knock sounds at my door, jolting me back to the present, and I rush across the room, eager to see him.

With one hand tucked behind his back, Braxton stands at the threshold, clad in a deep blue silk tunic, dark jeans, and polished black boots.

“You are a vision.” He grins, his appreciative gaze sweeping over me. “Though it seems you’ve forgotten something.”

Pressing a hand to the fitted bodice of my dress, I shoot him a quizzical gaze, puzzled about what he could possibly mean. That’s when I notice the exquisite gold leaf crown he offers me.

“May I?” he asks, and I lower my head. When I rise, I see he’s now wearing one of his own.

“When in Rome.” He grins. Then linking my arm with his, we make our way toward Halcyon, ready for our last party at Gray Wolf.

40

The swell of music greets us long before we reach Halcyon’s vivid orange doors. Max Richter’s upbeat remix of Vivaldi’s “Spring” swirls through the air, striking a stark contrast to the winter storm raging outside.

Though for Arthur, tonight marks the beginning of his own personal spring—a time for the awakening of hope, the blossoming of long-held dreams.

As Braxton and I move through the crowd, the atmosphere feels electric, alive with conversation and loud bursts of laughter. In the true spirit of Saturnalia, all the usual social boundaries are blurred.

Tonight, the elite and the support staff mingle freely, leaving me to wonder how many truly understand what this night of untamed revelry is really about.

Within this opulent setting, this enchanting, glittering, fever dream of a room—with its inky floors and undulating walls lavishly decorated with an array of artifacts collected from myriad cultures and times—is like a treasure trove, a collector’s fantasy brought to life. These objects, souvenirs from journeys undertaken by Trippers, create a vivid mosaic of human history and creativity, making the room more than just a physical space; it’s a crossroads where the pathways of time intersect.

My gaze moves from an amethyst chandelier overhead to the green marble-topped bar, where Elodie once served me a strange, iridescent red drink she jokingly referred to as “Strange. Sweet.” Then I take in the eerie elegance of the skeletal saint snatched from the Roman catacombs—a macabre relic that, according to Elodie, was Braxton’s contribution to the décor.

Yet it’s Arthur’s genius that’s transformed what was once an exclusive nightclub reserved for Gray Wolf’s elite into an otherworldly realm transcending the bounds of time. Leveraging cutting-edge holographic technology, Halcyon is now reenvisioned as the epitome of an ancient Roman domus, embodying the lavishness and scale that once defined the homes of the empire’s most distinguished figures.

Columns mirror the grandeur of Rome, and the space is filled with holographic renditions of generals and gladiators who wander about. So vivid and precise is their detail, distinguishing these ghostly apparitions from real, living guests is a formidable challenge. If I thought Arthur had outdone himself with the Van Gogh immersive dinner, what he’s created here is beyond anything I ever imagined.

My gaze sweeps across the guests, each of them wearing costumes that span from historically accurate tunics, togas, and silk stolas to more fantastical ensembles featuring crowns of woven blossoms and antlers, reminding me of the torch singer back at Arcana.

The fusion of past and present, reality and illusion, creates an atmosphere of surreal enchantment, as if we’ve all stepped into a dream where time has lost all meaning.

As we venture deeper into the throng, Braxton leans closer, his voice carrying a hint of the old formality of when we first met. “And now,” he says, “would you grant me the honor of sharing a dance?”

My gaze drifts to the dance floor, haunted by the ghost of our last encounter there, when he edged so close to declaring his love, but my fear interfered, and I purposely cut him off before he could get to the words. But now, drawing upon all the lessons in etiquette and comportment I’ve learned in this place, I bow my head, dip into a deep curtsy, and extend my hand for him to take.

As Braxton and I make for the dance floor, the room seems to erupt in a vibrant spectacle of color and sound. Leaving the usual decorum behind, we immerse ourselves in a wave of pure, unbridled joy alongside the crowd.

Elodie and Jago edge up beside us, their combined beauty almost too much to take in all at once. Elodie, draped in a gown of ethereal white silk that clings to her body as if woven from moonlight itself, beams at me in a smile so pure and unguarded, it occurs to me that I’ve never actually seen her this happy, not even with Nash back in Regency England.

Is Elodie clued in to what this night truly means?

“Shall we mix it up a bit?” Jago asks, his eyes glinting with mischief. He smoothly passes Elodie into Braxton’s arms, then reaches for mine. As I watch Braxton and Elodie move across the dance floor, Jago gives me a reassuring look. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he says, gesturing subtly toward Braxton and Elodie. “He’s completely taken with you—told me so himself.”

“I know,” I say, confident that all those old insecurities are now well behind me.

Jago, dressed in a white toga the same shade of moonlight as Elodie’s gown, leans closer, his deep topaz gaze latching onto mine. “Though I do find myself wondering,” he says, “what makes you think you can’t trust me?”

His question takes me by surprise, leaving me momentarily speechless. Yet, recognizing the honesty he’s always shown me, I know I owe him nothing less than the truth in return.

“It’s not you, per se…” I pause, searching for just the right words. “It’s more to do with your…connection with Elodie.”

A trace of amusement flickers across his ridiculously beautiful face. “Myconnection?” he teases, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

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