At long last, I made it over to one of the samovars. I turned the spigot to fill my glass, and Charles Delacroix sidled up next to me. “You did well,” he said. “This is a great night. This is where it all begins.”

“So you said. ‘Chocolate city,’ huh?”

“I thought it had good drama to it. People like drama, Anya. They remember drama.”

I tasted the drink. I’d followed Theo’s instruction to the letter, but the flavor was strong, if ever so slightly sour. Though no one at the party seemed to notice, something had gone bad in the mix. Maybe Theo was right when he had told me that there wasn’t a good substitute for chocolate. Yet half the samovars were already empty, so perhaps I was being an overly sensitive hostess. I took a second tentative sip. When I looked up, I saw Win, standing across the room next to Scarlet and Gable. I hadn’t seen him arrive. Despite everything, he had come for me. At that moment, my heart, my lowly, amnesiac heart, could not recall the things that had been more important than those eyes, those hands, that mouth. Forgive me, I wanted to say to him, I knew I would hurt you and I did it anyway. I don’t know why I am the way I am. I don’t know why I do the things I do. Please, Win, don’t give up on me. Love me a little, even though I’m flawed. “Thank you,” was what I did manage to whisper. He couldn’t have heard, but I was sure he saw my lips. He did not cross the room to me. He did not reply or even smile. I was not forgiven, not yet. After a moment, he raised his glass. I imitated his gesture before draining that bitter drink to its lees.

 Gabrielle Zevin