Description: 1 The party has begun without me. Slowly, I descend the main staircase of our apartment, which curves dramatically into the reception lounge, currently packed with important guests. Tall ceramic vases line the room, overflowing with roses of every variety: white albas from Africa, pink centifolias from the Netherlands, pale yellow tea roses from China, and roses altered with mystic dye right here in Manhattan to produce colors so electric they hardly seem real. Everywhere I turn there are roses, roses, roses--more roses than people. I reach behind me for assurance. My friend Kiki gives my hand a squeeze, and together we slip into the crowd. I scan the room for Thomas. Where is he? "I hope your mom doesn''t notice we''re late," Kiki says, careful not to trample on her dress. Gold, but not garish, her gown falls to the floor in luxurious waves. Her black curls flow past her shoulders in delicate dark loops; both eyelids are dusted with a shimmery pink that makes her brown eyes sparkle. "She''s too busy schmoozing to care," I say. "You look mag, by the way." "So do you! Shame you''re already taken." Kiki eyes the room. "Otherwise, I''d marry you myself." Practically all the members of the New York State Senate and Assembly are here, as well as our most prominent judges. Not to mention the businessmen and society folk who are indebted to my father, Johnny Rose, or his former political rival, George Foster, for their own success. But tonight isn''t about them. Tonight, the spotlight is on me. "Aria!" I quickly find the speaker. "Hello, Judge Dismond," I say, nodding to a large woman whose blond hair is swept up into a tornado funnel. She smiles at me. "Congratulations!" "Thank you," I say. Since the wedding announcement, the entire city has been celebrating the end of the war between Thomas''s and my families, or so I''m told. The Times is going to do a profile on me as a political darling and a champion of bipartisan unity--Kiki''s been mocking me about it ever since I told her. My best friend, the darling, she says in her best phony newscaster voice. I have to cross my eyes and smack her just to get her to stop. Kiki at my side, I continue my meet-and-greet duties, floating through the party as if I''m on autopilot. "Thank you for coming," I say to Mayor Greenlorn and our state senators, Trick Jellyton and Marishka Reynolds, and their families. "Quite an engagement party," Senator Jellyton says, raising his glass. "But then, you''re quite a girl!" "You''re too kind," I say. "We were all surprised to hear about you and Thomas Foster," Greenlorn says. "I am just full of surprises!" I laugh, as though I''ve said something funny. And they all obligingly laugh with me. I''ve been groomed for this since I was born--practicing the art of small talk, remembering names, graciously inviting senators'' daughters to sleepovers and birthday parties and smiling even when their horrible, zit-faced brothers pretend to bump into me so they can cop a feel. I sigh. Such is the life of a political darling, as Kiki would remind me. We make our way along the edge of the party, dodging guests and waiters dressed in white who weave through the room carrying trays of hors d''oeuvres and never-ending champagne. I search for Thomas but don''t see him. "Are you excited?" Kiki asks, plucking a miniature lamb burger off one of the trays and popping it into her mouth. "To see Thomas?" "If by ''excited'' you mean ''about to vomit,'' then, well, yes." Kiki laughs, but I''m being serious--I am full of nervous jitters. I haven''t seen my fiance since I woke up in the hospital two weeks ago with partial memory loss. After my accident. From a distance, the guests seem happy, Rose family cronies mixing easily with Foster devotees. When I look more closely, though, I can see that nearly everyone is shooting nervous, shifty glances around the room, as if the social niceties will be cast aside any second and the families will go back to treating each other as they always have. As enemies. My family has despised the Fosters since before my father''s father''s father was born. Hating them and their supporters is part of what it means to be a Rose. Or rather, part of what it meant to be a Rose. "Aria?" A young girl rushes up to me. She''s around thirteen, with frizzy red hair and a burst of freckles across her forehead. "I just want to say that it''s so upper about you and Thomas." "Oh, um...thanks?" She closes in. "How''d you pull off so many secret rendezvous? Is it true that he''s moving to the West Side? Do you--" "Thaaat''s enough." Kiki takes over, pushing the girl to the side of the room. "You''ve got more questions than you do freckles, and that''s saying something." "Who was that?" I ask Kiki once the girl is gone. "Dunno." Kiki huffs. "Boy, but do they make ''em small these days. And round. She was like a little potato. Definitely a Foster supporter." I frown, curling my fingers into frustrated fists. People I''ve never even met seem to know every detail of my torrid affair with Thomas Foster, when I can''t even remember meeting him, let alone falling in love. When I was released from the hospital and arrived home, I was told of our engagement. I asked my mother why Thomas wasn''t at the apartment, why he hadn''t visited me in the hospital. "You''ll see him soon enough at your engagement party," she said. "The doctors say your memory might still return--perhaps when you see Thomas, it will all come flooding back." And so here I am. Waiting. Watching for Thomas, so that I can remember. Kiki must sense that I''m struggling. "Just give it some time, Aria. You loved Thomas enough to defy everything for him--for now, just trust in that." I nod at her good advice. But time is the one thing I don''t have. Our wedding is planned for the end of the summer. And it''s already almost July. Guests move all around me, the women swathed in bright colors, parading their jewelry, tattoos, and mystic decals. The men are mostly tall and wide, with rough-looking faces and slicked-back hair. A distinguished gentleman I don''t recognize approaches and extends his hand. His fingers are rough, calloused. "Art Sackroni," he says. Nod, smile. "Aria Rose." He is older, with a handsome, weathered face and the black vines of a tattoo creeping up his neck. The Foster family crest--a five-pointed star--is inked in navy blue above his left eye. "I hope you and Thomas will be very happy together, Aria." "Me too," I say, half meaning it. Two incredibly large men--one black, one white--stand behind him with puffed-out chests, their bow ties looking ready to burst from around their throats. They, too, have tattoos that snake from under their collars. "It''s not every day a young princess finds her prince," Sackroni says. It sounds corny when he says it like that, but I''m hoping he''s right--that once I see Thomas, it will all come rushing back to me and I''ll be thrilled to be marrying him instead of terrified. I think back to when I overdosed on Stic, an illegal drug made of distilled mystic energy. People take it to feel what it is to be a mystic, to experience super speed, incredible strength, a greater harmony with the world, for a fleeting few moments. I was told that my parents found me unconscious on my bedroom floor, vibrating as if my body were filled with a thousand bees. I can''t imagine how I even got hold of the pills. None of my friends use. But I must have gotten them somehow, and leave it to me to screw things up. It''s so embarrassing. Rich people in the Aeries do Stic all the time. I can''t believe I was so stupid--and so unlucky--that the first time I tried it I ruined everything. I remember almost everything else, like what I ate for lunch one day last month (oysters, flown in by my dad from the West Coast) and how it affected me the next morning (two hours hugging the toilet and tossing them all up). So why can''t I recall anything about Thomas? Thankfully, there wasn''t any bad publicity. No one outside my immediate family, the Fosters, Kiki, and a handful of doctors and nurses know what happened. Apparently, while I was in the hospital, Thomas came to my parents and confessed that we''d been dating secretly for months. That we wanted to get married. Now here I am. I should be happy. Overjoyed. But mostly I''m just...bewildered, especially about how well my parents took the news. "There you are," my father says, guiding me toward where my mother is talking to Kiki. "Claudia, dear," she is saying, "you look gorgeous. Truly ravishing." "Thank you, Mrs. Rose," Kiki says. "You look stunning, as always." My mother gives a small, tight smile. Her hair is sculpted into a French twist, her normally blond locks now a mystic-infused scarlet so radiant I nearly have to close my eyes. Her face is slathered in makeup, designed to attract attention and inspire awe. I look tame compared to her: my makeup is all neutral tones, my brown hair blown out and tucked simply behind my ears. "You look good, Aria," my father tells me. "Respectable." I glance down at my dress, the cream-colored silk, the neckline detailed with tiny blue and pink roses, exposing my collarbone and plunging toward my waist in the back. Of course I look respectable, I want to say. I''m a Rose. But others are watching, so I thank him politely. He nods but doesn''t smile. My father never smiles. My mother''s eyes flash around the room, darting over the grand piano and the series of blue period Picassos, past the windows, whose curtains are drawn back to reveal a moonlit city. Then her face lights up and she sings, "Thomas! Ove

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