Page 48 of The Stolen Queen

Annie looked to her right, where Billy was signing in for his shift. Carl gave her the once-over and then nodded. “All right. Go ahead.”

“You saved the day,” said Annie as she and Billy walked down the hall together. “Thank you so much. I’m late and this is crucial to the evening. Justcrucial.”

She was speaking in the same cadence as Mrs. Vreeland, and the thought made her smile.

“I can only imagine,” said Billy. “You must be excited for tonight.”

“Excited. And nervous.” And disappointed that Joyce wouldn’t be waiting for her upstairs. But she didn’t say that out loud.

“You look terrific.”

“Well, thanks. All the heavyweights of New York high society are here, I figure I should look the part.”

“You look better than any of them, I’m sure.”

Annie blushed and couldn’t think of what to say back. In many ways, Billy came off as younger than Annie. He lacked the weight of the world that she carried around with her; his attitude was always positive. She envied that about him.

“Hey,” said Billy. “At some point, we should meet up for a pizza or something. That way you can see me in my natural state.”

“Natural state?”

Billy slapped the side of his face. “What am I saying? I’m such a dolt. I mean, not wearing a blue suit. Wearing normal clothes.”

He was asking her out on a date. She thought that was an excellent idea and said so.

“Great,” he said. “I’ll find you tomorrow and we’ll figure something out.”

In Mrs. Vreeland’s office, Annie took a moment to collect herself. She was about to attend the Party of the Year, and Billy the adorable security guard had just asked her out. Life couldn’t get better than this. She turned off the light and closed the door and prayed that the butterflies would be safe until the big reveal later in the evening. Leave it to Mrs. Vreeland to come up with the craziest ideas.

But the woman knew what she was doing—that much was clear as soon as Annie stepped into the exhibition, where a bevy of society ladies with white teeth and skinny arms wandered the space. Annie had only seen the exhibition with the harsh overhead lights on; under the designer’s lighting, each costume seemed like it was lit fromwithin, as if one of the mannequins might at any moment come to life and dance up the stairs, join in on the cocktail party raging in the Great Hall. Diaghilev’s bold use of color and style made each tableau unique, but Mrs. Vreeland’s extra touches—like the peacocks perched on the shoulders of the peacock bearers fromLe Dieu Bleu, the classical music playing in the background, and the subtle bouquet of perfume that tickled the nose—elevated what was ostensibly a textile display to a joyous celebration. Annie could just imagine what it had been like in Paris back in 1909, when Diaghilev founded the Ballets Russes. As the curtain rose, the audience must have gasped in shock at the staggering strangeness and beauty of it all.

Mrs. Vreeland had magically re-created a moment long past.

Annie knew she should find her boss and see what needed to be done, but she took a few moments to wander the exhibition first, stifling a yelp when she spotted the Egyptian broad collar sparkling on the chest of the mannequin wearing the Zobeida costume. Annie felt as proud as the archaeologist who first pulled it up from the Saharan sand or wherever these things came from.

The biggest draws were the Nijinsky costume fromSwan Lakeand the ones by Matisse from the Stravinsky ballet whose name Annie didn’t dare try to pronounce. She had learned so much in such a short amount of time. The sting of disappointment over her mother’s absence faded, replaced by a sense of purpose and pride.

In the Great Hall, Annie spotted Mrs. Vreeland standing at the center of a crowd, wearing a flowery velvet dress by Givenchy. Velvet seemed to be a trend, as Pat Buckley, one of the gala’s co-chairs, wore a similar design but in brown. Mrs. Vreeland smiled at Annie from across the way but then turned her attention to Bill Blass, tucking her arm into his as they headed into the restaurant for the dinner portion of the evening. The rest of the crowd followed, includingPriscilla and Mona with their husbands. Priscilla looked stunning in an embroidered, wine-colored sheath, and Mona’s aqua gown contrasted beautifully with her dark hair.

Annie hovered along the edges of the room during dinner, too nervous to be hungry. A feathered fan in the perfect shade of yellow lay lightly on each place setting, and the guests appeared to enjoy the three courses. Mrs. Vreeland barely touched her plate, and near the end of the meal she stood and surveyed the room.

“May I have your attention, please.” She waited with her head thrown back, one arm raised as the murmuring subsided, holding her champagne flute as if it were an Olympic torch. “On May 19, 1909, at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris, Russian genius Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev astounded the audience with a performance by his Ballets Russes, one that dance critic John Percival wrote ‘transformed ballet and sparked off a flamboyant revolution in fashion and interior design.’ Diaghilev’s career was one of collaboration with some of the greats of that century, including Debussy, Stravinsky, Cocteau, Ravel, Picasso, Prokofiev, and Balanchine, and my hope is that tonight you’ve gotten a sense of this man, a self-described cheeky charmer and unprincipled charlatan who radically changed the course of cultural history. I thank all the dedicated workers who helped us mount this show, and all of you for your support of this wonderful institution. And now, I encourage you to join us for dessert and dancing at the Temple of Dendur.”

Mrs. Vreeland led the way, taking tiny steps like a Japanese geisha because she disliked the sound of women’s heels hitting the floor. Annie had learned that fact only two days ago, when Mrs. Vreeland had admonished her for “galumphing like a heathen.” At the entrance to the Temple of Dendur gallery Annie paused, taking in the scene. In the darkness of night, it was as if the temple floated above the shallow pools of water surrounding the ancient structure onthree sides. The crowd had grown in size, and the music was loud; the pounding of the bass made Annie’s head spin. Everyone appeared to be having a great time except the security guards, who were busy asking guests not to lean on the black stone statues that lined the near wall. She saw no sign of Billy.

“It’s time for the VIP tour.” Mrs. Vreeland appeared at Annie’s side. “I’ll see you in the exhibition hall—just wait for my signal. I can’t wait to see what you’ve conjured.”

“Of course.”

“And you looksmashing, by the way.”

Annie stammered her thanks and began to express her gratitude for the opportunity to be her assistant, but Mrs. Vreeland was gone before she could get the words out.

She sprinted down to the exhibition hall and out the door that led to the basement hallway. She was gathering up the butterfly box from Mrs. Vreeland’s desk when she heard footsteps.

She froze. “Hello? Mrs. Vreeland?”

There was no answer. She hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights or close the door to the Costume Institute behind her when she came in. Yet the door was now shut, the expanse pitch-black.

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