The Dazzling Heights

Fuller Investments was the company that had patented all the structural innovations needed to build towers this tall: the ultra-compounded steel supports, the earthquake shock protectors stuffed between every floor, the oxygenated air that was pumped throughout the higher floors to prevent altitude sickness. They had built the New York Tower, the first global supertower, almost twenty years ago.

Which meant that Avery Fuller was very wealthy indeed.

“That sounds like fun,” Calliope chimed in. In her lap, she clenched one hand atop the other, then flipped them over again. She’d been to parties far more exclusive and incredible than this, she tried to remind herself: like the one at that club in Mumbai with the champagne bottle as big as a small car, or the mountainside lodge in Tibet where they’d grown hallucinogenic tea. But all those parties faded in her memory—as they always did—when confronted by the specter of some other future party that Calliope wasn’t invited to.

A puff of steam rose from the top of Avery’s cocoon as she gave the answer Calliope had been hoping for. “If you’re not busy, you should come.”

“I’d love to,” Calliope said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. She heard Avery mutter under her breath, and an instant later the envelope icon in the top of her vision lit up as her contacts received the message. Calliope bit her lip to keep from smiling as she opened it.

Fuller Investments Annual Holiday Party, read the scrolling gold calligraphy, against a black starry background. 12/12/18. The Thousandth Floor.

It was kind of badass, Calliope admitted to herself, that the only address they needed to write was their floor. Clearly they owned the whole thing.

The girls’ chatter moved on, to something about a school assignment, then a boy that Jess was dating. Calliope let her eyes flutter shut. She did love rich things, she thought with unadulterated pleasure, now that she got them for real—and usually on someone else’s dime.

It hadn’t always been like this. When she was younger, Calliope had known about these sorts of things, but never actually experienced them. She could look, but never touch. It was a particularly excruciating sort of torture.

It felt like a long time ago, now.

She’d grown up in a tiny flat in one of the older, quieter neighborhoods of London, where none of the buildings stretched higher than thirty floors and people still grew real plants out on their balconies. Calliope never asked who her father was, because she honestly didn’t care. It had always been Calliope and her mom, and she was fine with that.

Elise—she’d had a different name back then, her real name—had been the personal assistant to Mrs. Houghton, a stuffy rich woman with a pinched nose and watery eyes. She insisted on being called “Lady Houghton,” claiming that she descended from an obscure branch of the now defunct royal family. Elise managed Mrs. Houghton’s calendar, her correspondence, her closet: all the myriad details of her useless, gilded life.

Elise and Calliope’s life felt so dull in contrast. Not that they could complain: their apartment should have been adequate, with its self-filling refrigerator and cleaning bots and a subscription to all the major holo channels. They even had windows in both bedrooms, and a decent closet. Yet Calliope quickly learned to see their life as something unforgivably drab, illuminated only by the occasional touches of glamour that her mom brought home from the Houghtons’.

“Look what I have,” Elise would proclaim, her voice taut with excitement, each time she walked in the door with something new.

Calliope always hurried over, holding her breath as her mom unwrapped the package, wondering what it contained this time. An embroidered silk ball gown with sequins missing, which Mrs. Houghton had asked Elise to take back for repairs. Or a handpainted china plate that was one of a kind, and could Elise please track down the artist and have her make another? Even jewelry, on occasion: a sapphire ring or a diamond choker that needed to be professionally cleaned.

Reverently, Calliope would reach out to touch the sumptuous fur shrug, or crystal wine decanter, or her absolute favorite, the supple Senreve shoulder bag in a shocking bright pink. She would look up into mother’s eyes and see her own childlike longing reflected there, like a candle.

Always too soon for Calliope’s taste, her mom would pack away the treasure with a sigh of regret, to take it to the repair shop or cleaners or back to the store for return. Calliope knew without being told that Elise wasn’t even supposed to bring these things home at all—that she did so for Calliope’s sake, so that Calliope could get a little glimpse at just how beautiful they were.

At least Calliope got the hand-me-downs. The Houghtons had a daughter named Justine, one year older than Calliope. For years, Elise had brought Justine’s discarded clothing home to their flat, rather than taking it to the donation center as Mrs. Houghton instructed. Together Calliope and her mom would sort through the bags, exclaiming over the gossamer dresses and patterned stockings and coats with embroidered bows, tossed aside like used tissue because they were a season old.

When her mom worked late, Calliope would go to her friend Daera’s apartment down the hall. They spent hours pretending they were princesses at afternoon high tea. They would put on Justine’s old dresses and sip cups of water at Daera’s kitchen table, curling up their pinkies in that funny, fancy way, speaking in a butchered approximation of the upper-crust accent.

“It’s my fault you have such a taste for expensive things,” Elise said once, but Calliope didn’t regret any of it. She would rather see a tiny sliver of that beautiful, charmed world than not know of its existence at all.

Everything came to a head one afternoon when Calliope was eleven. She’d had the day off from school, so Elise was forced to bring her to Mrs. Houghton’s house while she worked. Calliope had firm instructions to stay in the kitchen and read quietly on her tablet—which she did, for almost a full hour. Until she heard the little beep of the house comp that meant Lady Houghton had left.

Calliope couldn’t help it—she darted straight up the stairs into the Houghtons’ bedroom. The door to Mrs. Houghton’s closet was wide open. It was just begging to be explored.

Before Calliope could think twice she’d slipped inside, running her hands longingly over the gowns and sweaters and soft leather pants. She reached for that bright fuchsia Senreve purse and slung it over one shoulder, turning from side to side as she studied her reflection in the mirror, so excited that she didn’t hear the second beep of the house comp. If only Daera were here to see this. “You will address me as ‘Your Highness,’ and bow when I approach,” she said aloud to her reflection, fighting not to giggle.

“What do you think you’re doing?” came a voice from the doorway.

It was Justine Houghton. Calliope started to explain, but Justine had already opened her mouth to let out a shrill, bloodcurdling scream. “Mom!”

Mrs. Houghton materialized an instant later, accompanied by Elise. Calliope winced under her mom’s gaze, hating the way her expression flitted between recrimination and something else, something frighteningly close to guilt.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, though her fingers were still closed tight around the handle of the purse, as if she couldn’t bear to release it. “I didn’t mean any harm—it’s just that your clothes are so beautiful, and I wanted to see them up close—”

“So you could get your grubby little hands all over them?” Mrs. Houghton reached for the Senreve bag, but for some perverse reason Calliope held it even tighter to her chest.

“And, Mom, look—she’s wearing my dress! Though she doesn’t look nearly as good in it as I did,” Justine added, nastily.

Calliope glanced down and bit her lip. This was indeed one of Justine’s old dresses, a white shift with distinctive black Xs and Os along the collar. It was true that it was a little long and shapeless on her, but they couldn’t afford to tailor it. Why do you care? You gave it away, she wanted to say, resentment rising up in her, yet for some reason her throat had closed up.

Lady Houghton turned to Elise. “I thought I instructed you to donate Justine’s used clothing to the poor,” she said, her tone clipped and businesslike. “Are you, in fact, poor?”

Calliope would never forget the way her mom’s shoulders stiffened at that remark. “It won’t happen again. Say you’re sorry, dear,” she added to Calliope, gently prying the purse from her rigid hands and passing it over.

Some deep-rooted instinct of Calliope’s rose up in protest, and she shook her head, mutinous.

That was when Lady Houghton raised her hand and slapped Calliope across the face so hard that her nose bled.

Calliope expected her mom to retaliate, but Elise just dragged her daughter home without another word. Calliope was silent and resentful at the time. She knew she shouldn’t have been in the closet, but she still couldn’t believe Lady Houghton had struck her, and that her mom hadn’t done anything about it.

The next day Elise came home in a flurry of agitation. “Pack your bags. Now,” she said, refusing to explain. When they got to the train station, Elise booked them two one-way tickets to Moscow and handed Calliope an ID chip with a new name. An unfamiliar pouch jangled at Elise’s waist.

“What’s that?” Calliope asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

Elise glanced around to check that no one was watching, then opened the drawstring of the bag. It was full of expensive jewelry that Calliope recognized as Mrs. Houghton’s.

That was when Calliope realized her mom was a thief, and that they were on the run.

“We’re never coming back, are we?” she’d asked, without a shred of regret. A sense of limitless adventure was unfurling in her eleven-year-old chest.

“That woman had it coming. After everything she did to me—after what she did to you—we deserve this,” Elise said simply. She reached for her daughter’s hand to give it a squeeze. “Don’t worry. We’re heading on an adventure, just the two of us.”

And from that day on, it was indeed a glorious, nonstop adventure. The money from the Houghtons’ jewelry eventually ran out, but by then it didn’t matter, because Elise had figured out how to get more: she’d swindled a proposal from a gullible, wealthy older man. She’d realized that Mrs. Houghton had given her something even more valuable than jewelry—the voice, and mannerisms, and overall demeanor of someone entitled. Everywhere she went, people thought Elise was rich. Which meant that they gave her things without expecting her to pay, at least not right away.

The thing about rich people was that once they thought you were one of them, they became much less wary around you—and that made them easy targets.

Thus began the life Calliope and her mom had lived for the past seven years.

“What flavor would you like for your facial cleanser?” a spa attendant asked, and Calliope blinked to awareness. The other girls were sitting up, their skin glowing. A warm, scented towel was curled around Calliope’s neck.

She realized that her treatment included a custom face wash, which had been created during her treatment specifically for her.

“Dragonfruit,” she declared, because its shocking red-pink was her favorite color. The technician deftly twisted open the jar, revealing a scentless white cream, and tossed in a red flavor pod before holding it up to a metallic wand on the wall. Moments later the jar of bright red face wash spun out of a chute, with a list of all the enzymes and organic ingredients that had been uniquely combined for Calliope’s skin. A tiny cranberry sticker completed the package.

When they emerged into the gold-and-peach front room and the other girls started leaning toward the retinal scanner to pay, Calliope pulled the trick she always performed when shopping in groups. She hung back; dilating her pupils, muttering curse words under her breath.

“Is everything okay?” Avery asked, watching her.

“Actually, no. I can’t log into my account.” Calliope gave a few more pretend bitbanc commands, letting a note of agitation creep into her voice. “I don’t know what’s going on.”