Bess cut another slice of the heart. We watched her eat until the whole cake was gone, devoured, without a crumb left. Bess swallowed the last bite, then flashed us a million-watt grin and dropped into a curtsy. The crowd burst into applause. Bess spotted us and ran over. George and I pulled her into a three-person hug.

“Bess, that was amazing!” I said.

“I was so nervous,” she said, blushing. “I was worried people would think I was gross.”

“That was a little weird, but pretty cool, Cousin,” George said grudgingly.

“You eat like a queen,” I added. Bess beamed.

Most of the guests had drifted back into the ballroom by now, and everyone seemed to be looking around for Mr. Gatewood to tell them this was all part of the celebration and they could take their free paintings now. But he was nowhere in sight, and neither were any of the red-jacketed staff.

Meanwhile, everyone assumed Sven’s performance was finished. Boy, were we wrong.

Sven dropped the bugle, extracted a squashed roll of parchment from his leotard, and began to read a long speech about how art belongs to the people and shouldn’t be held prisoner by criminals like their eccentric hostess, or power-hungry tastemakers like Angelica Velvet, or boring institutions like the River Heights Museum of Fine Art. He managed to offend pretty much everybody in about four minutes of monologue, which, I had to admit, was kind of impressive.

Nobody likes being lectured to, especially at a party, especially when the hostess and her staff have vanished. And I was learning that every performance had its limit. You can’t perform your whole life long. Eventually the performance has to end, and you have to take off your mask and show everyone who you really are.

Rufus Le Crous was the first to start booing. I saw him at the edge of the crowd, pinching his nose as though he’d smelled something terrible.

“This is not art, you charlatan!” he shouted. “Come down from there at once!”

“You know nothing of my work!” Sven called back.

Others took up Le Crous’s critique.

“He’s only doing it for views. Ignore him and he’ll go away.”

“There’s no money in performance art. It’s a terrible investment.”

“This isn’t 1973. Get a new shtick.”

“I say cut him down!”

“Funny sort of party favor. Is he meant to be a piñata?”

The spell was broken. People began to laugh and point. Cameras flashed.

“The performance is not over!” Sven cried, but the crowd ignored him. Several guests came up to congratulate Bess, as though she was the artist and Sven only her assistant. One elderly German even bowed to kiss Bess’s hand.

“Wunderbar!” he said, his cheeks cherry red. In the background, the Duchess’s staff returned, swarming around Sven with a ladder and untying him from the chandelier. He kicked and screamed the whole way down.

Bess stood still for a moment, thinking. Then I watched her square her shoulders and straighten her spine. George and I exchanged a look. We knew exactly what Bess was about to do.