“Diana Yip,” said Sven in my ear.

“Thanks for the input,” I whispered. “Next time you can tell me from over there.”

The other dancer’s masked face was further obscured by a tall collar made of woven sticks that clacked and snapped as they shook their head. I was hypnotized by the soft swishing of fur and the sticks creaking in time with the couple’s movements.

“Who do you think is under there?” George murmured, speaking my thoughts out loud.

I tried to determine the identity of the person under the mask, but it was impossible. The dancers moved like animals, like spirits, like whirling wind. Their energy was infectious. The whole crowd began to clap independently of the music. The masked dancer’s collar rattled and clacked, and the sounds echoed in everyone’s ears until we were dizzy and dancing too. Bess gave a whoop, and I saw Sven in the crowd doing the Macarena. Everyone shimmied and shook like wild things to the weird art music. It was a good feeling, half-silly, half-serious. Maybe that was how artists felt all the time. I thought maybe I’d been too hard on Sven. He was only an odd, silly, serious duck, and I could try to respect that, for Bess’s sake anyway.

The flute players finished their song and filed offstage. The dancers took a bow, and as they bent low, I managed to catch a glimpse of the crown of the masked dancer’s head—curly black hair, parted in the middle—but was unable to take in more before whoever it was swept back up and held their arms wide to the crowd’s applause.

This is what I love about being a detective, whether I’m on a case or not—discovering one small detail that tells a story. I imagined the dancer carefully combing and parting the hair that morning in front of the bathroom mirror, maybe taking a few extra minutes to smooth any stray strands, even knowing no one would see them. No one but me.

Diana Yip sat down on the stage, cross-legged, looking up at her partner. The masked dancer struck a warrior pose before the curtain and began to speak, their voice muffled and distorted through the layers of cloth and wood.

“Something terrible has happened to my grandmother. Early this morning, her home was burglarized. A priceless statue was stolen from her drawing room. No alarms were triggered, and the security cameras caught nothing. The thief escaped without a trace. No one will suspect her. And do you know why?”

Diana Yip said, “Tell them!”

“Because no one expects a child to steal from her own grandmother.”

“Wait, who’s her grandmother?” I wondered aloud.

“Her grandmother,” whispered Sven, “is the Duchess of River Heights. That’s Mona Pearl. The most talented student Mr. Covarrubias ever had. He said I was the second most talented. We’ll see, Mona Pearl. Oh yes, we will.”

The crowd rumbled; no one was sure how to react to Mona Pearl’s introduction.

Sven pointed to an imposing blond woman in a silk turban and a Western-style suit with wide lapels embroidered in roses and thorns. “That woman over there is Angelica Velvet, the owner of Slay Gallery.”