Chapter 1: The Gala
The Ward Gallery smelled like money and lilies. Wren could tell you exactly which one cost more, because Rosa had been whispering the prices of the sculptures all evening like a sports commentator.
"That one is forty grand," Rosa hissed, nodding at a twisted bronze figure. "I could buy a car."
"You can't drive," Wren said.
"Details."
Wren adjusted the tray on her palm and moved out into the crowd. The catering uniform was a simple off-shoulder black dress, better than the white polyester apron at the Copper Kettle. Her hair was pinned up, which was the real change. The butterfly mark on her left shoulder blade sat exposed, thumbnail-sized, pale brown against pale skin. She had stopped thinking about it at age nine.
The gala was for some children's charity. The room was full of people who said "the community" the way other people said "the weather." Wren circulated with champagne flutes, smiling the thin professional smile she had perfected over three years of diner shifts.
Near the back wall, a table of donors had gathered around a painting of a harbor at dusk. Wren leaned in across the corner of the table to reach a woman whose glass was nearly empty. Her shoulder turned. The butterfly showed, plain as a signature.
Across the room, a full wine glass hit the marble floor and shattered.
Wren looked up. Conversations stuttered. A woman stood frozen beside the bar, staring straight at her. She was tall, silver-dark hair pinned in a twist, wearing a slate-blue gown that probably cost more than Wren's rent. Her fingers were still curved in the shape of the glass she had dropped. Red wine spread across the marble like a map of something.
"Are you all right, ma'am?" a bartender asked her.
The woman did not answer. She was still staring at Wren.
Wren straightened, tray level. The woman was Celia Ward. Her face was on the invitation cards stacked by the door, and Rosa had pointed her out twice already. Owner of the gallery. Former cellist, according to the plaque in the lobby. She looked like the kind of person who never spilled anything.
Celia Ward crossed the room.
She did not look where she was walking. A server stepped out of her path. She stopped two feet from Wren, and her eyes went directly to Wren's left shoulder, to the mark, and stayed there. Her own hand rose slowly and pressed against her right shoulder, over the fabric of her gown, as if checking something beneath it.
"Where did you get that mark?" Celia said.
Wren blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The mark. On your shoulder." Celia's voice was low and fraying, nothing like the smooth recorded welcome message by the entrance. "Where did you get it?"
Wren's spine stiffened. "It's a birthmark. I've had it since I was born. That's the general concept."
"You're certain."
"Pretty certain. It was in all my baby pictures." Wren kept her voice even, though her pulse had quickened. The tray balanced on her hand. "Is there a problem, Mrs. Ward?"
Celia's hand was still on her own shoulder. Her fingers had tightened into the fabric. "What is your name?"
"Wren Delaney."
"And your mother's name?"
The question landed wrong. Wren's smile thinned. "Why?"
"I need to know." Celia stepped closer. Her eyes were bright in a way that made Wren think of someone holding back tears. "Please. Your mother. What is her name?"
"I don't know her," Wren said. "Foster care. That's about all I can tell you." She shifted the tray. "I should get back to work."
"Wait." Celia reached out, then stopped herself, her hand hanging in the air. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-five."
Celia's face did something complicated. She looked at the birthmark again, then at Wren's face, searching it the way you search a crowd for someone you lost.
"Mrs. Ward," Wren said quietly. "You're scaring the donors."
Celia glanced around, as if noticing the room for the first time since crossing it. "Forgive me," she said, smoothing her gown with a hand that almost shook. "It was a shock. The mark is unusual. I have one very like it."
Wren looked at her. "Lots of people have birthmarks."
"Not like that one," Celia said. She turned away, then turned back. "If you ever want to talk about it. The gallery is open Tuesday through Saturday. Ask for me."
"I'm good," Wren said.
Celia nodded once, sharp, and walked away. Her heels clicked against the marble, fast, uneven. She disappeared behind the bar and did not come back out.
Wren exhaled. Her hand was shaking, so she set the tray down and pretended to rearrange the glasses. A birthmark. The woman had crossed a crowded gala and interrogated her about a birthmark.
Rosa materialized at her elbow, eyes enormous. "Tell me everything."
"Nothing to tell."
"Wren. She dropped a glass. I saw it. I saw the whole thing." Rosa grabbed two champagne flutes off Wren's tray and handed her one.
"She asked where I got my birthmark."
Rosa snorted champagne through her nose. "She what?"
"She asked where I got it. Then she asked my mother's name."
"Okay, that's weird. That's genuinely weird." Rosa leaned against the table. "Maybe she collects birthmarks. Starts a museum."
"Stop."
"I'm serious. The Butterfly Wing. Grand opening." Rosa grinned. "You're famous now. Sign my apron."
Wren laughed despite herself. It came out thinner than she wanted. Across the room, the gala had resumed its hum. But Celia Ward had not reappeared, and Wren could still feel the woman's stare on her shoulder blade like a hand pressed there, warm and wrong and familiar all at once.
"Come on," Rosa said, nudging her. "One more hour and we eat the leftover canapés in the kitchen like queens."
"Best part of the night," Wren said.
But she kept glancing toward the bar, waiting for the woman in the slate-blue gown to come back and explain what had just happened. She never did.