Chapter 17: Objection

The Ashworth ballroom had two hundred white chairs, and every one of them was full.

I stood in the service corridor behind the east doors in a borrowed suit, with the cook's hand on my sleeve.

Dean was beside me, carrying a black case that held the quartet's spare amplifier and a cable he had spliced himself.

The driver and the maids had gone around to the kitchen side, where the guards were thinnest.

Through the crack in the doors I could see the marble.

It was the same floor.

Someone had polished it.

"Remember," the cook said. "Not until she's finished."

"I remember."

The quartet began.

At the end of the aisle Gerald Ashworth appeared with his daughter on his arm.

Camille wore a white gown with a long veil, and she held her bouquet low and still.

She didn't look at the guests.

Preston waited at the front in a white waistcoat, glowing with the pleasure of a man about to collect.

In the first row sat Lucille, her pearls on, her face stiff.

Beside her sat a grey-haired man with a Sayer Freight pin on his lapel, who had to be Preston's father.

Two rows behind them sat the chairman of the Larkmont Yacht Club and the board of Ashworth Marine, in dark suits, all in a row.

Gerald handed his daughter over to Preston with a small, correct bow.

The officiant cleared his throat.

"Dearly beloved," he said.

Camille took one step forward and stopped.

"I'm sorry," she said.

The officiant looked up.

"Camille?" said Preston softly.

"I can't do this."

She turned around to face the room.

The quartet faltered and went quiet.

"My name is Camille Ashworth," she said, in a clear voice that carried to the back, "and I remembered everything two years ago."

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