The crimson velvet drapes along the salon walls seemed to bleed into the plush carpet, absorbing the muffled chatter of the city's elite. Lina adjusted the thin wire of the earpiece beneath her wig, the cheap synthetic hair scratching against her scalp. Her sensible, dark uniform, two sizes too large, was a shroud. Her face, scrubbed clean of any distinguishing makeup, faded into the backdrop of other low-level assistants. Falco, nestled in a hidden pouch sewn into her oversized tote bag, shifted, a comforting weight. He was her only tether to herself tonight. She moved through the opulent room, trays of sparkling wine passing unnoticed in her hands, her eyes scanning. The air thrummed with the scent of expensive perfume and avarice. Then she saw them. Caterina Rinaldi, draped in a gown the color of bruised plums, her smile a predatory curve, her hand resting on Bianca’s arm. Bianca, radiating a false confidence, her hair set in rigid, lacquered waves, was already preening, anticipating a victory. Lina angled herself near a towering marble pillar, close enough to hear, yet far enough to be a ghost. The master of ceremonies, a man with a voice like aged port, began the preamble for the evening's star lot: the trio of luminous golden beryls. These were the very stones Dante had offered her, the pieces meant to anchor her claim under the pseudonym. “The Corvo girl always had a clumsy hand with yellow beryls,” Caterina purred, her voice carrying an edge of malicious amusement. “Remember that incident at the Institute? The fractured beryl? Such a pity.” Bianca giggled, a brittle, high-pitched sound. “She always thought herself so gifted. Daddy always said she was just a glorified assistant, lucky to even touch such gems. Now look at her, probably scrubbing floors somewhere.” She gestured vaguely towards the back of the room, as if to encompass all of Lina’s imagined degradation. A sharp, hot spike of fury pierced Lina’s practiced calm. The mocking laughter, the casual cruelty, sliced deeper than any physical wound. Her hands, clenching around an imaginary tray, trembled. They had not just stolen her work; they had desecrated her very passion, twisted her talent into a joke. The self-doubt that had clung to her for so long began to recede, replaced by a cold, searing resolve. This was not just about revenge; it was about reclaiming her very identity. As the primary stone, a sun-kissed teardrop, flashed on the display, the floor opened. “One point three million marks!” Caterina’s voice rang out, confident and assured. Bianca beamed, a proprietary smirk on her lips. Lina’s burner phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out, her fingers clumsy, and thumbed the pre-set speed dial. Dante Gallo. “It is me,” she whispered into the voice modulator, her speech flattened to a low, gravelly, masculine rasp. “Bid two point five.” A beat of silence. Then, a ripple went through the room as Dante Gallo, seated prominently in the third row, raised his paddle. “Two and a half!” His voice, clear and resonant, cut through the expectant hush. Caterina’s smile faltered. Bianca's eyes narrowed. “Ridiculous!” Caterina hissed, but she raised her paddle again. “Three point two!” Lina’s knuckles were white as she pressed the phone to her ear. “Go to five,” she commanded, the voice modulator distorting her rising tension into a steely calmness. “No hesitation.” Gasps filled the room as Dante’s paddle shot up, this time with a decisive, almost theatrical flourish. “Five flat!” Caterina’s face flushed a mottled crimson. Bianca spluttered, her hand flying to her mouth. The gavel-holder hesitated, his gaze sweeping the room. “Going once… going twice…” “She’s bluffing!” Bianca whispered fiercely to Caterina. “No one would pay that for a single stone!” Lina pressed her thumb against her index finger to steady her pulse. This was it. The moment of truth. The pressure of every roving gaze and silent judgment saturated the hall, even though none of it was directed at her true self. Her powerful facade was holding. “Sold! To Mr. Gallo, for five million!” the podium declared, the brass hammer falling with a sharp, echoing crack. A collective murmur rippled through the assembled elite. Caterina looked as if she had swallowed something profoundly bitter. Bianca’s face crumpled, her studied arrogance shattered into a childish pout. Humiliation, stark and public, bloomed across their features. Lina watched, a strange, potent mix of triumph and terror swirling within her. The air tasted of victory. Dante Gallo, having secured his prize, allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. His gaze swept across the room, a practiced survey of the shocked faces, the murmuring whispers. For a fleeting, agonizing second, his eyes, sharp and perceptive, seemed to lock onto hers. Not Lina Corvo, the disgraced assistant, but deeper, as if seeing through the flimsy disguise to the core of the deception. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face – curiosity? Suspicion? Lina froze, muscles seizing along her neck. She forced herself to meet his gaze, her expression blank as wet plaster, and then smoothly turned, slipping into the shadows of a service corridor. She slipped out past the heavy brass doors, muffling the lingering hum of scandal. The cool night air of Bressia did little to calm her racing pulse. Falco stirred in her bag, nudging her hand with his soft snout. She clutched the burner phone, a hot coal in her palm. The audacity of the move, the sheer reckless reach of her new disguise, both thrilled and terrified her. She was walking a tightrope, and the wind was picking up. As she rounded a quiet corner, the phone vibrated again, a harsh buzz in the stillness. She stared at the screen, the caller ID simply ‘Unknown’. Her hand trembled as she answered. “Partner,” Dante Gallo’s voice, devoid of its earlier salesroom charm, was direct, almost accusatory. “You were there, weren’t you? I need to meet you. In person.”

A Ghost in the Auction House