6
The welcome dinner was hosted in the ballroom of the hotel.
The lights were dimmed to soft amber, and there was a three-person band playing jazzy, unobtrusive music in the far corner, surrounded by potted bamboo plants.
The darkened mirrors that lined the ballroom made it seem as if the crowd of guests went on for miles.
Near the back of the room, Asta and Gem located the round table with the number that matched their name cards.
They set the cards in front of two chairs with a view of the stage.
Most of the attendees were not sitting down yet but were clumped into little knots of conversation, drinks in hand.
They were dressed in tuxes and ruffled shirts; some wore structured bodices with tiers of satin or belted peplum numbers in lace and gabardine; there were sequined boleros and floral ties, glamorous heels with bows on the toe, and everyone’s hair was curled, coiffed, and slicked into place.
With mounting horror, Asta realized that she was the only one wearing her jumpsuit.
The welcome packet had said that riders were supposed to be in uniform for the opening ceremonies, which followed the dinner, so she had just assumed that all the riders would already be in their gear.
Of course they weren’t. She could feel the eyes of the other guests hitch on her clothes as their gaze passed over her.
‘I look like an idiot,’ Asta whispered to Gem.
He looked at her with an air of utter detachment. ‘You are an idiot. I told you that you could change before the opening ceremonies, Asta. You never listen.’
Asta glared at him. ‘Do I have time to go back and change now?’
‘Not if you want to eat anything.’
Asta did want to eat. She was starving.
‘Just act normal, and no one will notice,’ Gem said.
‘Easy for you to say. You actually look good.’ The saffron hue of Gem’s light cashmere turtleneck set off his olive complexion.
He had even bothered to put hair oil in, and his curls shone.
At least Asta had thought to take her hair out of a ponytail and run a brush through it so that it cascaded halfway down her back.
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ Gem said. ‘It’ll help you forget what a dork you are.’
‘You better make it a strong one.’
Gem saluted like the dutiful soldier and disappeared into the sea of people.
In his absence, Asta staved off boredom by picking out the riders that she recognized as they moseyed by.
That guy always ran too hot in the first lap.
That one was a killer in the canyons. That guy had changed dragons this year, and they weren’t quite in sync yet.
And she could take any one of them, any day of the week.
Asta felt a tug on her sleeve.
‘Excuse me, hi. I’m Allie Vorajee. I write for the Tower Review.
You’re Asta Ekenberg, right?’ Allie Vorajee showed Asta their lanyard with the black press stripe.
They wore high-waisted plaid trousers, taut suspenders, and a glossy pastel blouse.
Even the reporters were better dressed than Asta was.
‘Uh, yeah,’ Asta said. ‘That’s me.’ Her throat was dry, and she looked wistfully at the sweating water glass at her place on the table, too far out of reach to be able to grab nonchalantly.
Allie Vorajee put an open hand on their chest and sighed. ‘Man, I’m so glad you wore your kit! I wouldn’t have recognized you otherwise. I mostly see you with your helmet on.’
‘Mostly?’
Allie lifted one round shoulder to their ear.
They spoke quickly, as if trying to say everything on their mind in one breath.
‘I cover racing. I’m starting to, anyway.
Not usually the big races, but the Tower wanted two reporters at Silverscale, so they sent both me and Rain – he’s the senior writer who normally does these things.
But I have been at a lot of the smaller tournaments, and I’ve seen you race. You’re really good.’
Asta was stunned, not only by the torrent of words coming from this reporter but by what they were saying.
‘You’ve seen me?’
‘Totally! I saw you at Welton Falls and at the Keery Cup and at that one in West Granger.’
Asta winced. ‘You saw that?’ Asta had made an error in judgment in the first lap, and Carmine had caught his wing on a post, tearing the skin and wrenching him so hard that he almost fell.
Asta had panicked. At the sight of his blood, hearing his shrieks of pain, her mind had gone completely blank except for one thought: she had failed. Failed Carmine. Failed herself.
If she had kept her wits about her, she would have gotten Carmine off the track immediately for first aid.
Torque had shouted himself hoarse trying to get her to come in, but she simply hadn’t heard him.
Beneath her, Carmine bellowed and bucked, but she hadn’t comforted him, hadn’t taken control.
She’d just clung to him – frozen, defeated.
It was Carmine himself who got them off the track, and just in time.
Another moment’s floundering and the marshals might have called out the medics, which would’ve meant disqualification.
But knowing he would find relief in the pits, Carmine limped there on his own, jostling Asta back to herself.
Torque patched the wing and sent a shaken Asta back out to finish the race.
But the memory of that day haunted her. Before West Granger, Asta had been casting herself as Tess Curie in her rise to stardom.
She was indomitable, she told herself. That day, she had learned that no, in fact, she was the kind of person who choked under pressure.
If it hadn’t been for Carmine’s good sense, Asta might still be clinging to his harness on the West Granger track as her dreams galloped away from her.
The reminder that other people had seen that moment shook Asta.
But Allie was glowing at the memory. ‘That was incredible! You placed third with the injury. I’m supposed to be neutral or whatever, but I was screaming my head off.
I’m really excited to see you race this week.
I’m going to be cheering for you. Hopefully my bosses don’t see me – I’m not supposed to have a favorite. But I do.’
Asta couldn’t believe it. She had a fan.
Among all those thousands of people who would be watching the races this week, one of them would be cheering for her.
West Granger eased into the background just a little.
Before Asta could swallow the lump in her throat, Allie had excused themself and flitted away into the crowd.
Asta was about to go in search of Gem when, over the elegant settings of several unoccupied tables, she locked eyes with Pikki Lowell.
Pikki looked incredible. Clearly, she had understood the dress code.
Her chestnut-colored hair was swept into graceful, almost sculpted, waves.
She wore an ocean-blue silk dress, with a light shawl draped around her elbows, exposing her muscular arms.
Without breaking Asta’s gaze, Pikki leaned in to the group around her and said something that made everyone turn and look at Asta.
Asta recognized a few of the faces that were now twisting into caustic smiles.
They had been her classmates at Pillar. Racers now, she guessed.
They would have graduated over two years ago.
Pikki tapped the shoulder of a man in a trim tuxedo.
When he turned, Asta saw that it was Felix. In the soft light of the ballroom, a drink in his hand, he looked like he had stepped straight off the silver screen: a handsome rake out on the town, a beautiful woman on his arm. He was devastating in that tux, and he knew it.
Pikki pointed at Asta and repeated her witticism for him.
Felix’s eyes flitted over Asta’s racing kit. Then his self-serious expression broke, and he laughed. Actually laughed. At her.
Asta could feel a trembling begin in her chest. Both Felix and Pikki had their reasons to hate Asta.
But they had no right to laugh at her. How was she supposed to know all the unspoken rules of this nepotistic hothouse of privilege?
She was already an outsider here. Of the 200 riders competing at Silverscale, 177 were men.
Asta could never be what Felix was – heir to the father-to-son legacy of an old racing house.
Pikki, of all people, should understand that, but she was too busy sucking up to Felix. Once a sycophant, always a sycophant.
Asta had gotten herself to the Grand Prix.
She had every right to be here, dressed however she wanted.
How dare they laugh at her! Asta was glad that there were a good forty people standing between her and the Pillar alums, because she was angry enough to fight them all, right then and there.
But fighting, she reminded herself, had not gone well for her last time.
Instead, she lifted her hands to flip them off and stalked away to find Gem.
She met him on his way back to her, a drink in either hand and Yixin at his side.
‘What if, hypothetically, someone had taken Asta hostage, and the only way you could free her was to go up there and sing?’ Yixin asked. She smiled eagerly, waiting for Gem’s answer.
‘What are you talking about?’ Asta asked, taking one of the drinks from Gem. It was brown and a little cloudy. She tasted it. Hard booze and citrus. Perfect.
Gem shook his head. ‘Yixin wants me to storm the stage,’ he said, nodding at the podium. ‘She thinks I should sing something for the fine folks of Silverscale.’
‘That microphone is just sitting up there so lonely,’ Yixin said, casting a pitying look at the stage.
‘Tragic,’ Asta said. ‘But why am I being abducted in this scenario?’
Yixin shrugged. ‘Leverage.’
‘Yeah, but there’s a flaw in your plan,’ Asta said. ‘If Gem starts singing, I’m asking the kidnappers to keep me.’
‘Hey!’ Gem protested. ‘I’m a good singer!’
Yixin shook her head stubbornly. ‘Anecdotal reports will not suffice.’ She pulled at Gem’s arm. ‘I am a scientist. I require evidence.’