Free City on Fire by Garth Risk Hallberg

temple. Then the party swallowed her once more. Regan couldn’t tell if Felicia hadn’t seen her or had only been pretending. Either way, it might have been a blessing, but it vexed her that Felicia was the one always holding the cards. The mask had emboldened Regan, or the champagne had, tickling the back of her throat. She took another glass from a passing tray and then, with no memory of having crossed the room, waited for Felicia to reach for the hands of the dignitary or potentate she was talking to. This pressing of your hands in her own was how she let you know that she released you.
    When the man left, Regan and her stepmother were face-to-face. Felicia’s eyes seemed to retreat into the extraordinary plumage, and only there, safely ensconced, to risk seeing her. For it was always a risk, wasn’t it, to see? Regan felt the onset of wisdom, a discovery dammed up inside breaking auratically loose as Felicia reached out.
    “Regan, darling, is that you? I hardly recognized you.”
    “You look terrific yourself. The mask is quite something.” Regan couldn’t bring herself to take the extended hands.
    “Oh, this is just a Carnival thing your father brought back last time from the tropics. Now you’ll have to give me your honest opinion on the décor, as I know most people will say whatever keeps them in good graces. Times are tight, but we did put more resources into it than ever before.”
    More of Daddy’s resources, she meant. More of what would have been Regan’s resources, if she hadn’t long ago renounced her claim to the Hamilton-Sweeney fortune. “You’ve outdone yourself again,” she said. “Speaking of Daddy … is he around here somewhere?”
    “I told him not to book his return flight for the day of the gala. I said, Bill, you never know. Chicago? The way weather blows up off the lake with no warning? Amory and I were in Buffalo for decades. We know what real winter looks like.”
    “I thought the clinic was in Minnesota. What is he doing in Chicago?”
    “A layover. His assistant called at four to say the runway wouldn’t be cleared until after the snow stopped, nine o’clock at the earliest, which was only”—she checked her watch, a slinky gold thing—“an hour ago. And of course I haven’t been near a phone since then. I think we must be getting the leading edge of that storm now ourselves.”
    “And you went ahead with the party?”
    “Well, of course. It would have been irresponsible not to. These people all depend on us.” The eyes seemed to rouse themselves from their sequined foxholes. The rest of the room was melting away. “But where has that husband of yours gotten off to? He always has been such fun, socially.”
    “Keith won’t be coming tonight, I don’t think,” said Regan quietly.
    “Mmm?”
    Regan had long since given up trying to peek inside the black box of her father’s marriage, and so had no idea whether their private communication surpassed their by now rather etiolated public mutuality; still, it seemed impossible that she herself could be en route to divorce without Felicia having picked something up. Like most authoritarian regimes, the Goulds’ depended on intelligence. Indeed, Amory had worked in the Office of Strategic Services as a young man before entering the private sector.
    “We’ve decided to separate. As a trial.”
    Regan hated all the possible constructions, including this one, as soon as they left her mouth. Time apart. Get some perspective. Strange to say, though, the calculated pageant of emotion seemed to suspend itself; Felicia’s lips parted, and Regan had the feeling she wanted to put aside the masks. Maybe she really hadn’t known. Then the moment passed.
    “You’ve informed your father, I presume.”
    “Of course I have.”
    “He’s always been a sound judge of character.”
    “Daddy loved Keith.”
    “Well, that’s just what I mean. We’ll all be sad to lose him. Tell him when you see him next, won’t you? Though