There was a dinner of seven perfect, tiny courses, with lots of glass-switching and wine-pairing and utensil-updating. The food was intimidating: roasted pigeon with braised lettuce, halibut with poached quail eggs, baffling combinations of violet artichokes and lardons and foie gras and pickled shallots…every dish containing a velouté, confit, or foam of some kind or other. Two dedicated servers hovered around them, moving things whenever Scarlett least expected it. It almost seemed like their entire function was to confuse, making the diners doubt their every move and keep them on edge. The band droned on in the background, running through low-key standards and old Sinatra songs.

“This sucks,” Marlene said.

“Language,” her mom said, halfheartedly.

Under the table, Max’s leg casually bumped Scarlett’s. It looked like an accident, something he just did while he was shifting, but Scarlett felt it was intentional. Especially when it happened a second time. Had he come just to exact revenge for the stool-tipping by starting a leg war with her at Lola’s party? Because she would win that. She slipped a fork under the table in her napkin and had it ready for the next time he moved. Max showed no signs of the impact in his expression, but from the way he pulled back quickly, she knew she had gotten him well. Not enough to cause damage, but enough to get the message.

Spencer picked up on the fact that something strange was going on and gave her a “What are you doing?” look. She just shook her head.

The band started to slip into a faster dancing mood by playing a weird swing version of “Cabaret.”

“Actually,” Mrs. Amberson was saying, “this reminds me of one night at Studio 54. Liza Minnelli had just taken off her…”

The Martins were a lonely little island in a sea of strangers. They were guests at this party, surrounded by socialites, bankers, politicians…all important people who had things to say to one another. Across the room, in full view of everyone, Chip and Lola sat at a table of their own. Chip’s friends kept coming over to talk. Lola stared over the room, landing most of her looks on her family’s table, catching Scarlett’s eye and trying to smile.

“…and I said that yes, I was pretty sure we could get the horse in there. Not in the bathroom stalls, but certainly over by the sinks and…”

The waiters came over to threaten them one last time with oversize pineapple ravioli with mint au jus. The band changed gears, signaling that the time for dancing had begun. Scarlett saw one of the servers grab another by the sleeve, point at Spencer, and whisper. There was quiet talk, nodding, surreptitious glances.

“You’ve got fans,” Max said to Spencer in a low voice, while prodding his ravioli with a fork.

Spencer looked over. The servers looked panicked, then busied themselves with stacking some plates on a tray.