Chapter 20: The Same Marble

The ballroom had the same marble floor and the same chandeliers, and two hundred guests in the same black and silver.

There was a new screen above the stage, twice the size of the old one.

I walked in wearing green, on purpose.

It was my own dress this time, size twenty, cut by a woman in Zurich who had measured me with real pleasure.

Phones came up as I crossed the floor.

Let them.

Quentin stood at the foot of the stage and didn't touch me. His eyes said everything.

At table four, in a dark suit with a cane across his knees, sat Vittorio Bellandi. Rocco sat beside him, upright and silent.

Nobody at that table was drinking.

Constance took the microphone at nine.

She wore pearl grey, and her silver-blonde hair was coiled low, and her voice was warm and carried perfectly.

"Friends," she said. "Three years ago this room saw something terrible. I have spent three years wishing I'd done more."

She looked at me, and her eyes were wet.

"Tonight a young woman has agreed to speak to us. I ask you to hear her kindly. Sabina, my dear."

She held out the microphone with both hands.

It was a very good trap. If I spoke, I was a thief asking pardon. If I refused, I was a thief hiding.

I climbed the steps and took it.

The marble was just below the stage. I could see the exact place where the jade had landed.

"Good evening," I said. "I'm Sabina Brunner."

Someone in the back row laughed.

"Three years ago you watched a recording of me in this room," I said. "It said I called the Wexleys fools."

I waited.

"It said I would have the Foundation's money by Christmas."

I let that sit.

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