“Do you see him anywhere?”

I glanced back at Ethan. “Reed or my father?”

“Either. I’m surprised Reed isn’t making the rounds—and your father isn’t at his side.”

“What do you know about this Towerline project?”

“Not a lot,” Ethan said, shifting to avoid the swoop of a juggler snatching an errant baton. “I’ve read about it, seen the plans in the paper. It’s reportedly the biggest deal your father has ever closed.”

“And he wants Reed as an investor?”

“That would be my guess. A project that large will take a lot of financing.” Ethan touched my arm, nodded toward the other side of the room. “And I believe we’ve just received our summoning.”

I followed his gaze. A man on the other side of the room—also tall and lean, but with dark hair and pale blue eyes that matched mine—gestured with two fingers, beckoning me to him in the same fashion he called his servants.

I managed not to growl.

“Beware, Sentinel. Humans are the fiercest predators of all.”

“Well aware,” I said, using one of Ethan’s favorite phrases.

With Ethan’s hand at my back, we crossed the ballroom.

“Joshua,” Ethan said when we reached him.

He offered Ethan a handshake. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you.”

“Merit,” he said to me, without pleasantries.

“Dad.”

Always charming, Ethan said silently, then gestured to the room. “This is quite an affair.”

“Adrien enjoys a good show. He’d like to meet you. I’ll take you upstairs.” He turned on his heel, headed toward the staircase. My father was undeniably absorbed by business, but for him to act as majordomo for anyone was utterly out of character. And oddly sycophantic.

The deal must not be done if he’s doing Reed’s business, Ethan said silently.

My thoughts exactly. But we’d come here for a purpose, so we followed him to the stairs, climbed treads of pink marble warped with age and the wear of thousands of footsteps. Thankfully, going up was a lot easier than going down, so Ethan didn’t have to bear the burden of my purse.

Partygoers flowed around us with masks and champagne flutes in hand, the entire effect dizzying, like walking uphill through a waterfall of people.

The second floor opened into a long gallery flanked by marble columns, the walls marked by oil paintings in gilded frames: landscapes, still lifes, portraits. As with the first floor, his taste seemed to vary in everything except size. They were all enormous, which made their subjects seem that much larger.

Our Mr. Reed does not care for subtlety, Ethan said, our footsteps silent on the undoubtedly priceless runner that covered the marble floor as we traversed the gallery.

There were fewer guests in this room, which felt more like it belonged in a medieval castle than a businessman’s home. The few men and women who’d sought refuge from the crush downstairs stood in intimate clusters, faces hidden by demi-masks.

The end of the gallery was marked by a set of wooden doors.They opened and a man strode out, closing them quietly behind him again. He was a big man—tall and wide—with a rounded crown of silver hair surrounding a shining bald dome. He walked toward us with heavy, steady steps, and looked very unhappy about whatever had gone down in the office.

“Sanford,” my father said.

“Joshua,” the man said with a nod, then carried on behind us, leaving the faint smell of cigar smoke behind him.

Sanford? I asked Ethan silently. His face rang a bell, but I couldn’t place him.

Sanford King, Ethan said. He was arrested last year for racketeering, bribery, extortion, and some manner of other financial ills. He was acquitted, as I recall.

The arrest apparently hadn’t hurt his reputation if he was getting private meets with Reed at the man’s own gala.

We reached the doors, the apparent inner sanctum, and my father knocked. A moment later, the door opened, and a tall man in a black suit glanced at my father, then us. Bodyguard. He had the square jaw and broad shoulders for it, and the buzz of steel from the gun I guessed was holstered in a shoulder harness.

“Joshua Merit,” my father said.

The door closed a bit while the guard did his checking, then opened again. The guard looked each of us over as we entered, then closed the door behind us and took his post again, shoulders back, hands clasped in front of him.

The room, an office with several walls of shelves, a large desk, and a sitting area, was spartan compared to the rest of the house. There were a few pieces of décor—a globe, potted palms, a blocky chandelier that might have been designed for a Frank Lloyd Wright house, but they were appropriately scaled and surprisingly tasteful.

A man stood across the room, leaning against the desk with one ankle crossed over the other, a phone in hand. He was trim but broad-shouldered, with dark, wavy hair and a goatee that had just begun to salt-and-pepper. I’d have put him in his early forties.

His charcoal tuxedo was immaculately cut, his square face well lived in but handsome, with a square jaw, a deep slash of mouth, eyes the same gray as his suit. He wasn’t unhandsome, but it was the air of utter confidence, the sense of fundamental knowledge and control, that was interesting. He was absolutely certain of his world.

He hung up the phone, slipped it into his pocket, glanced at my father questioningly.

“Ethan Sullivan of Cadogan House,” my father said. Apparently, the Master got top billing. “You’d wanted to meet him.”