“I prefer singular pieces,” Belbalm said. “Simplicity, hmm?”
Alex nodded, tearing her eyes away. She was wearing a pair of three-sets-for-five-dollars earrings that she’d boosted from the racks at Claire’s in the Fashion Square Mall.
Simplicity.
“Come,” Belbalm said, rising and waving one elegant hand.
“Let me just get my bag,” said Alex. She returned to Mercy and jammed a pancake into
her mouth, chewing frantically.
“Did you see this?” Mercy said, turning her phone to Alex. “Some New Haven girl got
killed last night. In front of Payne Whitney. You must have walked right by the crime scene this morning!”
“Damn,” said Alex, casting cursory eyes over the screen of Mercy’s phone. “I saw the lights. I just thought there was a car accident.”
“So scary. She was only nineteen.” Mercy rubbed her arms. “What does La Belle
Belbalm want? I thought we were going to edit your paper.”
The world glittered. She felt awake, able to do anything. Mercy was being generous and Alex wanted to work with her before the buzz began to fade, but there was nothing she could do about it.
“Belbalm has time now and I need to talk to her about my schedule. I’ll meet you back
in the room?”
That bitch can lie like she’s breathing, Len had once said of Alex. He’d said a lot of things before he died.
Alex trailed the professor out of the dining hall and across the courtyard to her office.
She felt shitty leaving Mercy behind. Mercy was from a wealthy suburb of Chicago. Her
parents were both professors, and she’d written some kind of crazy paper that had impressed even Darlington. She and Alex had nothing in common. But they’d both been
the kid with nobody to sit next to in the cafeteria and Mercy hadn’t laughed when Alex had mispronounced Goethe. Around her and Lauren, it was easier to pretend to be the person she was supposed to be here. Still, if La Belle Belbalm demanded your presence,
you didn’t argue.
Belbalm had two assistants, who rotated at the desk outside of her office. This morning
it was the very peppy, very pretty Colin Khatri. He was a member of Scroll and Key and
some kind of chem prodigy.
“Alex!” he exclaimed, like she was a much anticipated guest at a party.
Colin’s enthusiasm always seemed genuine, but sometimes its sheer wattage made her
want to do something abruptly violent like put a pencil through his palm. Belbalm just draped her elegant coat on the rack and beckoned Alex into her sanctum.
“Tea, Colin?” Belbalm inquired.
“Of course,” he said, beaming less like an assistant than an acolyte.
“Thank you, love.”
Coat, mouthed Colin. Alex shucked off her jacket. She’d once asked Colin what Belbalm knew about the societies. “Nothing,” he’d said. “She thinks it’s all old-boy elitist
bullshit.”
She wasn’t wrong. Alex had wondered what was so special about the seniors selected
by the societies every year. She’d thought there must be something magical about them.
But they were just favorites—legacies, high achievers, charisma queens, the editor of the
Daily News, the quarterback for the football team, some kid who had staged a particularly edgy production of Equus that no one wanted to see. People who would go on to run hedge funds and start-ups and get executive producer credits.
Alex followed Belbalm inside, letting the calm of the office settle over her. The books lining the shelves, the carefully curated objects from Belbalm’s travels—a blown-glass decanter that bulged like the body of a jellyfish, some kind of antique mirror, the herbs flowering on the window ledge in white ceramic containers like bits of geometric
sculpture. Even the sunlight seemed more gentle here.
Alex took a deep breath.
“Too much perfume?” Belbalm asked with a smile.
“No!” Alex said loudly. “It’s great.”
Belbalm dropped gracefully into the chair behind her desk and gestured for Alex to seat
herself on the green velvet couch across from her.
“Le Parfum de Thérèse,” Belbalm said. “Edmond Roudnitska. He was one of the great
noses of the twentieth century and he designed this fragrance for his wife. Only she was