Free The Tiara on the Terrace by Kristen Kittscher Page B

eyes at me. She scooped up the coats and her own tray, and we dove back into the crowd. I caught sight of Rod, water pitcher in hand and mouth open, staring at the major scene I’d caused, and my cheeks itched with heat.
    â€œSee? I’m not cut out for this, Grace. I told you,” I groaned as we hung up the guest coats and prepped the soup course that—lucky for me—adult waiters were serving. The last thing I needed was to splatter boiling hot puke-green splitpea soup in someone’s lap.
    â€œPractice makes perfect,” she said with a smile.
    â€œOr even pretty perfect?” I nodded toward Lauren Sparrow who was gliding over the dark polished wood floors in her high heels, visiting clusters of guests like a hummingbird floating from flower to flower. Her cheeks glowed—probably thanks to a little Pretty Perfect magic—and her hair cascaded to her shoulders in relaxed waves. Grace gazed at her as if in a trance.
    As Ms. Sparrow nudged Mr. Lee and Mr. Zimball away from the group they’d been talking to, I shot Grace a look. I’d told her about Sparrow’s reaction at the Court announcements—and neither of us was sure what to make of it. Was she trying to tell Zimball and Lee something? “Eavesdrop opportunity at ten o’clock,” I whispered. “Or is it two o’clock?”
    â€œTarget acquired,” she said, grabbing another tray of deviled eggs. “Going in.”
    As Grace held out her tray to the cluster of people next to Mr. Lee and Ms. Sparrow, I lingered at the table behind them, filling water glasses and wishing I could use Grace’s mouth-open, hands-cupping-ears spy trick to hear better.
    â€œI’m just saying we need to do some damage control here, that’s all,” Ms. Sparrow said, sounding like she was ata board meeting. “Typical of Barbara, isn’t it? I mean, she knew two days ago that’s what we’d all decided. And she doesn’t pull Lily then? She waits until we crown her? It’s an embarrassment. And cruel to her daughter, by any stretch. What kind of person does that?” She shook her head. “As if the Festival doesn’t have enough of an image problem right now.”
    Grace slipped off with her tray toward the kitchen. I rushed behind. “Did you hear that?” I whispered. “ Two days ago. Barb knew Lily wasn’t going to be queen.”
    Grace nodded solemnly. “Motive: established.”
    A tinkling like a bell interrupted us. Harrison Lee stood at the head of the long Royal Court banquet table at the center of the room, tapping the rim of his champagne glass with a spoon. “A toast,” he called out. His cheeks were flushed. Rod’s dad sat next to him, smiling; he was the Festival’s second-in-command now, after all. I caught myself wondering if Rod would look the same when he was older. Mr. Zimball had brown curls, too, only gray and wispy at his temples.
    â€œTo our beautiful Roses,” Lee raised his glass to the Royal Court, obviously still relishing his new role as Festival President. As Sienna beamed and held up her water glass, Jardine turned to the ballroom crowd as if expecting something more, like a ritual foot washing—or masskneeling in worship. Kendra Pritchard smiled, her braces gleaming. I had to blink away a vision of myself polishing her headgear at bedtime.
    Grace leaned closer to me while everyone clinked glasses. “Listen, I’m trying out for pages—alone, if I have to.”
    Her words stung like a slap. Just like that, she’d do this without me? I looked over to the Royal Court. They’d recovered from the hors d’oeuvres crisis and were squeezing in for a picture, their arms slung around each other like they’d been friends since daycare.
    â€œThat’s a terrible idea,” I said quietly.
    Grace shrugged. It was like she thought deciding to go undercover alone was no bigger deal than