Wattys shortlist 2021. One morning the sun rises a few hours early, striking levitating skyscrapers in Soliara ahead of schedule. People in the streets stop to look up at the sky and then down at their watches. Most of them, puzzled but disbelieving...
Tony and Cordelia Solari had a supernal penthouse, which meant their condo floated fifty feet above the top of a highrise.
They were a nice, young family among the highest elite in the city, but they were new to the kind of money they had come into. There wasn't enough time for them to settle in like the wealthy and acquire extravagant things, so it was modest, except for the view from two thousand feet up over downtown Soliara, where all the newly wealthy seemed to live.
When Cristo came to call, Tony wasn't home. Sounded like he was rarely ever at home.
Cordelia Solari led Cristo into the living room with a big smile and conveniently little questioning other than, "Can I get you something to drink? I have a nice fino open, not too dry."
"Just a glass of water, please," said Cristo, and she went to the open concept kitchen to oblige while he glanced around the fairly tidy but certainly lived-in living room where photos in frames lined every single surface except for that of the coffee table, on which books were more scattered than stacked. Cordelia and Tony had taken in a young niece and nephew, orphans, and the textbooks and book binders piled on the sofa must have belonged to them. Cordelia didn't have any cleaning staff, or she would have sent someone to get the door and the drinks, but she had let him in herself and she probably had to tidy the living room herself.
It was a family room, in contrast to the showrooms found in old Solin mansions.
"Are you a friend of Tony's?" Cordelia called over the counter.
"Yes," said Cristo. When she came back, it was with two glasses. He took the one with water. Her glass was filled with fino sherry. The bright colors of the living space, the family portraits, and Cordelia's warm, if fixed, smile told one story and the glass in her hand that she sipped with forced delicacy told another.
She regarded him with big, trusting eyes. Lovely eyes framed with curly lashes and a red lipped smile and a stately dress and long black hair and she was every bit as beautiful as the woman from the pictures, and Cristo half-sensed that she was sad underneath the smile, except there wasn't a trace of sadness anywhere in her face or her conduct or the bright, beautifully furnished and comfortable insula except inside the low ball glass.
"It would be best if you took a seat," he said, and he moved textbooks off the couch and onto the coffee table. She sat as he directed, no questions asked, and Cristo took the white armchair across from her, pulling from his pocket the photographs he had brought.
Under the surface, this family was unhappy, and he was about to make things a whole lot worse.
Seconds passed, little time in the grand scheme of things, but he felt every tick of the second hand on his watch while he hesitated. Cristo had done much worse things than what he was about to do. It didn't really help to think about that. He didn't think, just made himself say, "I have something to show you. I'm sorry."
Tony's wife was wonderfully unwary and she didn't sound at all afraid when she answered, "All right."
It was the right thing to do, Cristo decided as he handed over the first photograph. Cordelia regarded it, but even now she wasn't about to start asking questions, so Cristo said, "These were taken to blackmail your husband." He handed her the second photo, but his words and the images didn't elicit any reaction from her. Cristo kept his face grave as he passed her the next, this one showing the woman who was not Tony's wife alone with him in an apartment that was not the Solari family's penthouse. With stoic eyes, Cordelia said in a level voice, "That is Antony's boss." Cristo passed her the next photo, and the next, and Cordelia didn't say anything, and her facade never cracked, which was unnerving.
If Cristo couldn't mitigate the damage, he was no better than the blackmailers.
When Cristo handed her the last picture, the smile did leave her face, and he saw that it was the key to her beauty. Gravity did not suit Cordelia Solari.
She sat staring at the final image with eyes that didn't really see. Cristo broke in with consoling words. "You can see that he didn't go through with it," he said.
As if Cristo had broken the spell, Cordelia looked up and put the photographs down on the table, smile back in place. It didn't really make her look beautiful this time.
"Of course he didn't," she said with surprising conviction. "Thank you. Can I get you another drink?" The light in her eyes and the flawless kindness that radiated from her like the heat from the sun was terrifying, and Cristo couldn't speak for a second. She should have been furious, if not with her husband for almost cheating on her than with Constellation for trying to blackmail him. The lack of reaction wasn't so much an unnatural one as it was empty, and her perfect mask left him with no idea of what festered underneath: sorrow, betrayal, fury, or worse: nothing. Cristo had no way to be sure Cordelia Solari would even confront her husband at all.
"Will you talk to Tony?" he asked after a beat.
"Of course," said Cordelia Solari. "He is my husband." Her sincerity was astounding, but if it was a lie, he had just wasted precious minutes and would have to spend many more to make sure Tony knew that his wife knew about the almost-affair.
"Cordelia," he said, taking her hands in his, and she gave them a squeeze that expressed gratitude. "It is important that your husband know you have seen this, otherwise the blackmailers will continue to hold a terrible power over him."
Even that didn't provoke fear from those glass doll eyes. "Of course," she promised him. "Of course I will."
She stood up, extending an arm toward the door. "Thank you again, can I show you out?"
It took an effort not to scarper right past her and out of there, but Cristo stood and followed her out of the living room and back to the front door, where he bid her a polite goodbye and she thanked him again. As if sensing his unease, she assured him several times that she would speak to her husband, but Cristo couldn't risk believing her. Something was wrong.
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