Page 12 of Skotos
Thomas nudged my elbow.
I swallowed hard and said the first thing that came to mind. “Some of us like to look presentable. Others settle for roguish charm.”
Mrs. Ambassador grinned at Thomas and raised her champagne flute. “Roguish charm always wins the day, dear.”
Thomas shot me a wink. “Told you.”
I laughed despite myself, feeling a new warmth settle in my chest. Whatever else the night held, that moment filled with glinting lights, soft music, and playful barbs from a warm and generous woman was something I would not soon forget.
Our banter paused as the steaming soup course arrived in elegant gold-rimmed bowls. It was avelouté de champignons, a creamy mushroom soup perfected with white truffle oil and a whisper of brandy. The scent alone was intoxicating, drawing delighted murmurs from around the table. One of the actresses dabbed her lips with a linen napkin and declared it “heaven in a bowl.”
I was just lifting my spoon, ready to taste the decadence for myself, when the orchestra fell silent mid-phrase. A hush swept across the room like a curtain dropping, and conversations tapered into instinctive silence.
Silverware stilled.
Chairs barely creaked.
All eyes turned toward the head table.
French President Auriol had risen, his champagne flute held high, his face bright beneath the glint of chandelier light. Behind him, a golden draperyframed him like the centerpiece of a grand painting.
The moment hung in the air, fragile and ceremonial, as the room collectively awaited his words.
7
Thomas
“Mesdames et messieurs,” President Auriol began, his voice warm and steady. “Tonight, we gather not only to dine in the company of esteemed friends but to celebrate the enduring spirit of unity shared between our peoples.”
He paused, sweeping the crowd with a gaze filled with genuine warmth, his champagne flute still held aloft, catching the glint of the chandelier’s light.
Turning toward the Swiss President, he continued, “I remember, years ago, Max and I found ourselves arguing over who had the more beautiful mountain ranges. I told him the Alps were magnificent, but the Pyrenees had soul. He accused me of being romantically French. I accused him of being diplomatically neutral.”
The room laughed, delighted.
“Ah, but isn’t that the beauty of friendship?” he continued. “That two nations, two peoples, two histories can come together—not despite ourdifferences, ratherbecauseof them. Max, your wit has sharpened me more than any whetstone. And your kindness . . . has been the compass by which I’ve often found my own moral north.”
Petitpierre gave a slight, bashful incline of his head.
President Auriol went on, his voice rising in tempo like a conductor bringing strings to crescendo. “Let us toast not only to our own friendship but to the countless quiet acts of benevolence that shape our world every day. To those who labor in shadows so peace may shine in daylight. To every soul who serves with humility, with conviction, and with courage.”
He raised his glass higher and boomed the cherished French phrase, “Liberté, égalité, fraternité!”
Applause rang out—not polite, not perfunctory, but honest and full, a room of impassive dignitaries, for one brief moment, moved by one man’s words.
A thunderclap.
The sound didn’t register at first.
It was too sharp, too sudden, like a car backfiring from the lot beyond the palace walls. For all we knew, it was part of some elaborate production, timed to underscore the President’s remarks.
President Petitpierre’s head jerked backward as a bloom of red mist exploded across his wife’s shoulder and bodice. His body crumpled with a sickeninggrace, folding like a marionette whose strings had been sliced.
Madame Auriol screamed.
Her hands rose instinctively to shield herself, her face a portrait of horror.
President Auriol staggered back as his mind struggled to process the scene playing out only an arm’s length away. His glass dropped and shattered, champagne spreading across the white linen like spilled treasure.
