The music stopped, conversation died out, and Cory Hughes, Harrington’s campaign manager, stepped to the microphone and introduced the candidate. Alexander Talbot Harrington stepped onto the stage to loud applause. He had to raise the microphone because he was tall, and wasn’t that lucky for him. Mia set her iPhone to record so she could focus on him. He was good-looking in person, with fine chiseled features and a square jaw, all the physical endowments a successful politician could need. He smiled and began speaking. She was struck by his lovely, distinctive voice, with only a trace of the Boston Brahmin accent, and wondered how long he’d worked at blending it with New York–speak. He came across a bit like another J. F. Kennedy, but easier on a New Yorker’s ear. His speech itself was smooth enough, self-deprecating at the right places. He obviously had good writers. He acknowledged he was young, an outsider to New York City government, and apologized, with a smile, for being from Boston, and he just about managed to turn those New York negatives into positives. He focused not on partisanship, but on solutions for the city’s festering problems, left unsolved for too long by the current administration. He said little of real substance, and Mia wasn’t surprised when the few specific positions he took were greeted with applause since the room was filled with like-minded people. After ten minutes, he grinned at the room and stepped back to thunderous applause.

The band blasted out “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Someone touched her arm, and she turned to see Miles Lombardy, Mr. Harrington’s senior staffer. He was a fair young man no older than thirty, an up-and-coming political wunderkind. Mia thought he looked like a wise owl, with his big round glasses and goatee. He introduced himself, smiled, and said, “Mr. Harrington was pleased to hear you’ll be the chief correspondent for the Guardian covering his election for mayor. I’m confident you’ll feel quite supportive when you learn more about him.” He sounded slick as streambed rock, even smoother than Harrington.

She gave him a fat smile. “Don’t you mean his run for mayor? You do know it’s in my contract to be as objective as I can be, right?”

Mr. Lombardy returned her smile, showing perfect straight teeth. “One naturally prefers optimism, Ms. Briscoe. Whatever you need, please contact me, or Mr. Harrington’s campaign manager, Cory Hughes.” He gave her his card. “Mr. Harrington would like to meet you. Please wait here.”