When I stepped out and climbed to the second floor, Christine called me from the room at the end of the hall. It was enormous, overflowing with clothes, shoes, and bags—larger even than the bedroom. I passed the floor-to-ceiling shoe cabinet and approached the display where Christine stood.Hundreds of undergarments hung there by color. Christine was examining a pale-pink lace bra she’d placed up front. Though I’d agreed to wear it, seeing it in person surprised me; I took a hesitant step back and stared wordlessly.“Once you set foot at the feast, I can’t take any responsibility for what comes after.”Without taking her eyes off the lingerie, Christine spoke. Arms crossed, I replied evenly,“No one—especially not you—needs to take responsibility for me.”“I won’t care about you anymore. Whatever happens to you or whatever you do, I won’t interfere.”“That’s good to hear.”“If you want, I can give you one piece of advice.”“Telling me to run away now?”“That would be best—but you don’t want that.”Christine spun and turned her back, lingerie in hand.“Don’t wear the rabbit mask.”“…”“Now strip. I need to see if the underwear fits.”I caught sight of her stubbornly set jaw, then silently took off my shirt. She handed me the bra, which I held awkwardly at my fingertips. I’d never touched a bra in my life. Like something I’d seen on television, I fumbled one arm into a cup—but then froze, unsure what to do next, staring at Christine like an idiot.For the first time today, she cracked a genuine smile and beckoned. I shuffled forward, and Christine gripped my shoulders and positioned me before a mirror. From behind, she adjusted the bra until it sat securely on my chest. She smoothed the straps, then—meeting my reflection—fixed me with an impish look.“It suits you. Perfect match for your skin.”“Thanks.”I shot back with a sarcastic grin and fiddled with the tight band around my ribcage.“Uncomfortable.”“Beauty always comes with a bit of discomfort—though you’re not especially pretty. Now, while I prepare, go back to your restaurant or wherever, change into a suit, and come back wearing it. Put this on underneath. Hurry—I’ll come to fetch you soon.”She tossed me a thin, lace-trimmed panty. I caught it but couldn’t imagine returning to Ellefan like this.“I don’t have a suit.”“What?”“What drifting vagabond has a suit?”“Unbelievable.”Frowning deeply, Christine snapped,“Didn’t you hear Timothy earlier? It’s a feast!”“So I don’t have a suit—what then?”“Then don’t go.”In this room—bigger than the bedroom—there had to be at least one men’s suit. Ignoring Christine’s glare, I rifled through the racks. Christine sighed, then plucked a black suit from the far corner and, from another hidden nook, found a box with a pair of men’s shoes. With an exasperated toss, she thrust both into my arms.“Behave, damn it.”I turned and departed. Downstairs, I slipped on the lingerie—which was far easier than the bra—and then tried on Christine’s suit. At nearly two meters tall with broad shoulders and a well-built frame, I was large for a man—but Christine exceeded even me in stature. The suit fit surprisingly well. The dress shirt was a bit loose, but with suspenders and the jacket, it looked passable. The shoes were slightly big, but wearable.While fastening the bow tie before the mirror, I felt awkward—like James Bond look-alike. I’d never worn such fine tailoring. Pretending to be “Rachel” in a men’s suit, layered over women’s undergarments as a drag performer—the whole scenario felt surreal. Thanks to a month living with Teddy’s routine, I could imitate manners, but giving voice to “Rachel” and seeing the image in the mirror would take time to feel natural.As I waited for Christine to finish, I stepped out to buy three packs of cigarettes and two coffees. I considered dropping by Ellefan to say I’d stay out overnight again, but decided against it and went straight back to Christine’s house.By then I still wasn’t used to the suit and bra, but I’d accepted my situation. I was about to go to the club. Nothing might happen—but what I’d waited eight years for could finally occur. I was one step closer to the origin of the highest-floor boys. For eight years I’d searched only for the most miserable way to end the lives of the two remaining boys. That was all I wanted.Evening approached swiftly. Thin rain streaked down the windowpane in tiny droplets. Christine descended only when the outside world had gone pitch-dark. She appeared wearing a black evening gown, her golden hair braided up, and modest apricot lipstick—a departure from her usual look. Draped in a silk robe and clutching a purse at her hip, she looked every inch a dignified hostess.Christine dropped a costly wristwatch into my palm.“Act like a gentleman.”We sat on the living-room sofa, sipping lukewarm coffee, waiting for the chauffeur. He arrived just before eight. Like a couple on a date, we linked arms and climbed into a luxury car. The vehicle carried us down rain-soaked, dim roads toward an unknown destination.The drive lasted nearly an hour. The rain grew heavier, the patter on the roof almost deafening. Christine, tense since the afternoon, drifted into a weary sleep. The chauffeur said not a word, focused solely on the road. No radio played; only the rain’s percussion pierced the silence.At some point we veered onto a country road, well-paved, but flanked by dense woods that swallowed light and muffled sound. We wound along that lonely stretch for miles. Our headlights revealed only trees—and occasionally two glowing eyes of a woodland creature watching us go by. Then the forest opened onto sweeping plains—and there, in the center, rose an immense mansion.A grand Renaissance palace fit to be called a castle, it dwarfed even its vast grounds. An elaborate Italian garden gleamed romantically under floodlights, and a fountain as large as a small house sparkled at its heart. The car followed a private drive around the estate’s edge to the rear of the mansion. «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» Towering trees lined the driveway—trunks so thick two people could barely wrap arms around them. Bronze lampposts between the trees lit our path.Behind the house, more cars stood in the wet courtyard—some with headlights still on, as if just arrived. As we parked, umbrella-bearing staff rushed to open the doors. Christine, waked from slumber, stepped out gracefully, the attendants steadying her. Rain continued to fall. I slipped under the attendant’s umbrella and followed her through the grand archway into the entry hall.Inside, a bustling salon hosted guests brushing off rain and checking their coats. Beyond it, a banquet hall so vast its ceiling must have been fifteen meters high revealed itself. We must have been late—gentlemen in tuxedos and ladies in evening gowns and hats filled the hall, enjoying drinks and conversation. We didn’t mingle. Instead, we approached a long, wide staircase at one side.The attendants escorted us only that far. Christine nodded politely and mounted the black-carpeted steps. I followed a step behind, glancing back at the curious scene.“So this isn’t it?” I asked.“That’s just a social party. We’re going to the private feast.”We climbed in silence, passed through several smaller salons, and finally halted before a modest, unassuming door down a side corridor. Beyond it lay a small empty room with only a few chairs. Christine unlocked another door. I stepped through—and there before me was the grandest Italian salon we’d passed: a vast floor of intricate blue-and-white tiles, a long table draped in white carpet stretching across its center.Only three people occupied it. Two were conversing with a man at the head of the table—a face I knew well. It was his brother, so like Hugh I could have mistaken them.“Finally you’re here, Christine.”Timothy rose briskly from the head seat, dressed in impeccable white tie. Tapping the tail of his coat straight, he approached and kissed the back of Christine’s hand.“You’re as beautiful as ever.”His smile, so like Hugh’s, sent a chill through me—yet close up, I saw he wasn’t Hugh. He was slimmer, less solidly built; in some ways, more delicate. Still, when his gaze shifted from Christine to me, I shrank back.Timothy stepped to me and offered his hand.“Rachel, isn’t it? I’m glad you accepted our invitation.”I stared at him as I shook his hand. He didn’t kiss my hand—thankfully. He greeted me conventionally. Christine took the seat just below Timothy; I sat at the very end of the table. From the moment we’d arrived, Christine had ignored me, and I returned the favor. No one else addressed me, so I sat quietly, listening. Was this “the club”? Were these “the members”? My whole body tingled with tense anticipation.The empty seats filled quickly. Across from Christine remained a place left vacant for me. Other seats now held one more drag performer, one woman, and one butch-presenting woman; two other men filled the last spots. As we relaxed with pre-dinner drinks, appetizers arrived. While others chatted comfortably, I strained to catch every word. Someone across from me spoke, but I mumbled a reply and the conversation ended. My attention stayed fixed on the table’s chatter—every snippet might be a clue.“By the way, Christine, how’s the chef I introduced you to? Are you pleased?”I noticed how warmly Timothy spoke to Christine—nothing like his cool, commanding morning tone. Yet that very contrast made his current gentleness feel unsettling. Only I seemed to sense it. Christine responded with her usual confident ease. Their shared gaze was intimate; Timothy looked at her with lover’s adoration. He spoke softly and respectfully, their hands locked together on the table. They looked like a happy couple. How did Christine plan to use this man?After the appetizers, the wine changed. I barely touched mine—I needed my wits about me. The wines were strong. I sipped water, listening carefully. Christine and Timothy exchanged news of people I didn’t know. Others discussed Steve Jobs’s death or gossip about the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge—topics utterly unrelated to this club.As the main courses appeared, I realized how mundane it all seemed. Was there a secret code I was missing? After all, this was the club. To sit in this lavish hall at such a table and gossip about royal newlyweds—that was absurd.Moreover, Timothy had not spoken to anyone but Christine. The others felt like token guests plucked at random. It made me uneasy.Servants flitted about refilling glasses, and laughter rang out. When we’d eaten half the main course, a man slipped through the staff and walked toward the head seat. I glimpsed the gleam of his polished shoes as he passed. He approached Timothy directly.“You’re late. They’ve almost finished the main course.”Timothy reproached him cheerfully.“Sorry—came all the way from London.”At that enchanting apology, the room fell silent. Time had ripened his voice into a spellbinding maturity: the man who spoke was Jerome.I alone could not raise my gaze. I froze mid-slice of beef, my knife nearly slipping from numb fingers. If I moved, even blinked, the feast’s fragile calm would shatter. Yet finally I knew I had to look. Compelled by a force I could not resist, I raised my eyes slowly. There, across from Christine at the seat just below Timothy, stood Jerome in pristine white tie, lifting his wineglass. His gaze swept the table—then locked on me.His bright green eyes widened in startled recognition. Frozen in that pose, wineglass still at his lips, he exhaled, broke eye contact, and smiled back toward Timothy. That smile was as poised as ever—but the slight tremor in his hand betrayed him.“So… what topic was I to chime in on?” Jerome brushed a water droplet from his shoulder. Swallowing, he looked down at his plate.“Oh, we were just discussing Sergio Terres.”The tension broke, and the feast resumed its grand old dance.

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