New York City did not recognize the return of its fallen royalty. To the millions scurrying through the canyons of Manhattan, Ethan Blackwood was a cautionary tale of corporate hubris, and Lila Laurent was a tragic footnote in the disappearance of a private gallery. The city was louder, sharper, and colder than it had been when they left, draped in the neon glare of a thousand new digital billboards that seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic violet.
Lila stood on the observation deck of the Chrysler Building, the wind whipping her dark trench coat around her legs. She wasn't looking at the skyline; she was looking at the air itself.
"The grid is different," she whispered, her hand resting on the swell of her stomach. The child was seven months along now, a quiet weight that seemed to t
