From the open lawn behind her, a chorus of frogs broke into a concert. It amplified in her ears with its disharmony. Wade neared, his face trapping something wild trying to break out, but Leslie cut in front of him and tugged on Nola’s arm. “Let’s visit the little girls’ room.” When she started following him, he whispered, “Oh, my, my. Whatever happened to your dress?”

In the vast powder room, upholstered stools lined the wall-to-wall vanity below gilt-framed mirrors. Nola dropped onto a stool and shut her eyes. “I caused Wade to worry,” she murmured as Leslie took out cleaning fluid from a case he kept for all eventualities and rubbed off what he referred to as “Not chocolate éclair” from the heels of her shoes and her dress.

For the next half hour, she felt like a zombie as the Ambassador and Margot Ashford, with Wade trailing behind them, guided her around the ballroom, introducing her. She smiled and tried to make small talk, but more than once she began a sentence only to forget what she had meant to say. After a while, she plastered an apologetic smile on her face and pointed to her throat, and Wade explained that she must preserve her voice. Although it was against protocol for guests to ask for her autograph, she complied with those who did. Anything to fulfill her duty and be left to think.

The Dying Rooms. Lulu. When was the exact moment within these past twenty-four hours when her former world of music and adulation began to feel like fraud? All she wanted to do was hold Lulu and bury her face in the infant’s belly, generating squeals of delight. She wanted to smell Lulu’s scent. To play peek-a-boo. To promise Lulu that she would never, ever, see the Dying Rooms. How was it possible to love so fast, so completely?

Kong Ruiji showed up in Nola's line of vision. He greeted her with an effervescence that forced her to clear her head. She needed to speak with him about Lulu.

“Our favorite diva! My people love your singing,” he called out and held her hand in his. Even though he was slight, his hand was square and his grip strong, an incongruity that banged at the gate of her consciousness.

“Thank you for choosing me to sing for them.” She tilted her head in a gesture of respect. She posed for a photograph with him, then another, while he flashed a brilliant smile to the camera. Behind her, she felt more than saw Wade gloating.

As soon as the flashbulbs stopped and the photographers moved away, Nola opened her mouth to talk about Lulu, but at that instant thought better of it. It would insult Ambassador Ashford, whose help in the matter Wade had already sought. Her interference might also undermine Wade's efforts while she tried to appease him.