Chapter 7

The next day, at six o'clock sharp, Mark waited outside the same cafe, where the air still smelled of yesterday's revelations. Kismet emerged from the bustle of the city like a mirage that had taken on flesh; her image was sharper, more businesslike today than it had been yesterday.

"Ready?" "What is it?" she asked by way of greeting. "Yes," Mark said, feeling a new turn of events unfold.

They plunged into a maze of city streets where every turn seemed unfamiliar. After a ten-minute walk, Kismet stopped in front of a small tailor shop. The display case was tastefully decorated: several mannequins in elegant suits, dim lights, golden letters on the glass forming the name "L'e légance".

"An old friend of mine works here," Kismet said, opening the door. "It will help us create a new identity.

Once inside, they were immersed in a symphony of scents: notes of leather intertwined with the rustle of fabric. Along the walls were racks of ready-made suits, and in the back of the room were sewing machines and large tables for cutting.

"Monsieur Henri! Kismet called.

A tall, gray-haired man with an inch around his neck emerged from the utility room, and the day that followed became a kaleidoscope of endless preparations.

"The suit should be your second skin," Kismet explained as the elderly tailor took measurements. — At the ball, every detail counts. Anything unnatural can give us away.

Mark stood motionless, feeling like a mannequin under the touch of a cold measuring tape. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Kismet move between the racks of dresses like a ghost, her fingertips barely touching the fabrics. There was something hypnotic about it, as if she were performing a silent dance, choosing not just an outfit, but a new identity.

— Have you done this before?" "What is it?" he asked as the tailor went to get some samples of cloth. "Pretending to be someone else?"

She paused at the evening dress counter, and for a moment it seemed as if time had stopped with her. — Each of us plays a different role every day, Mark. It's just that we don't usually notice it.

A few minutes later, the tailor returned, reverently unfolding the sawn-off cloth. — We need something.".. special to this man, " he murmured in a slight French accent.

Kismet leaned against an antique chest of drawers, watching the proceedings, her eyes glittering like a cat's at dusk.

"That is why we are here, my dear Henri. We need perfection. her fingers brushed lightly against the edge of the cloth the gray-haired man was ostentatiously holding. "That's exactly what we need. Classic cut with modern elements.

Mark watched the fabric in fascination, trying to imagine himself in a suit made of it. Suddenly, the whole thing seemed even more unreal.

"And now," Monsieur Henri clapped his hands, " we need to discuss the details. Every button, every seam should tell a story. He took out a sketchbook and began sketching lines quickly, glancing at Mark from time to time as if checking an internal picture.

The sun was setting when they left Monsieur Henri's atelier. Kismet, who until now had seemed pleased with the outcome of the visit, suddenly became serious.

"The suit is just the beginning," she said, looking at her watch. —Now we need to teach you how to move so that it sits naturally. Dance in such a way that no one doubts your origin.

The old dance hall, with its tarnished mirrors and worn parquet floors, became their refuge for the next two days. Kismet was a demanding teacher.

"Waltzing isn't just about moving in circles," she said, adjusting his arm around her waist. "This is a conversation without words. A story that we need to tell everyone around us.

Mark tried to focus on counting and paces, but Kismet's proximity was distracting, like static electricity pricking his skin. She smelled of something elusive. They spun around the room, each turn bringing a new revelation: how perfectly his hand fits the curve of her back, how they move in sync, like two streams of the same river.

"One-two-three, one-two-three," she counted out, her voice blending with the music of an old gramophone. - Imagine that we are a single mechanism. A clock where every cog knows its place.

Just yesterday, they were practicing the legend. They invented the story of their fictional love, like writers creating a novel. Kismet insisted that every detail be plausible.

— We met at a contemporary art exhibition, " she said, pacing the room. — You noticed me at the installation "Time as an illusion". We talked about nature and eternity...

— And fell in love while discussing whether time really exists?" Mark chuckled, but the irony masked his growing unease. The more they delved into this fictional story, the thinner the line between truth and fiction became.

Kismet paused at the window, where the city was disappearing into the twilight.

"The best lie is the one with a grain of truth in it," she turned to him, her eyes darker than usual in the dim light.

— We need to find this grain.

They spent the last day before the ball honing every detail of the plan. Maps of the building, escape routes, emergency signals-all this formed a complex mosaic, where each fragment had to fit into its place.

— What if something goes wrong?" Mark asked, looking at the map of ballrooms spread out on the table.

"Then we'll improvise," Kismet said, running her finger along the lines of the blueprint. "Like a dance." The main thing is to feel the partner and the music of the moment.

There was an unspoken tension in the air. Mark found himself unable to tell exactly where their fictional story ended and reality began. It was all mixed up: touching while dancing, casual glances, shared secrets...

After these grueling days of preparation, Monsieur Henri's costume was already waiting for them, complete and perfect. When Mark first put it on, the silver threads really seemed to come to life and create an aura of mystery and nobility around him.

"You're ready now," Kismet whispered, adjusting his collar.

"We just have to wait for the ball."

But Mark saw something like concern in her eyes, as if she, too, was beginning to wonder where the line between their fictional story and reality lay.

"Uh-huh," Mark muttered, feeling the suit fit him perfectly. He felt like a different person - more confident, more confident... worthy. But with that feeling came a sense of unease.

"Kismet," he said, choosing his words carefully, " we've spent so much time creating this illusion. But what happens after the ball? When will it be over?

She looked away, her fingers still absently adjusting the folds of his jacket.

"After the ball... Things will change, Mark. One way or another.

There was a heavy silence in the room, broken only by the ticking of the antique clock. Mark felt something tighten in his chest. Fear? Anticipation? He couldn't quite place it.

"You know," Kismet continued after a pause, " there's an old legend that if two people waltz under a full moon, their fates are intertwined forever. Maybe that's why the ball is always held during the full moon.

She looked up, meeting Mark's gaze. In that moment, he saw something new in them - a vulnerability she had previously carefully concealed.

— We're not just playing roles, are we?" Mark asked quietly, feeling his pulse quicken.

Kismet smiled softly, but there was sadness in it.

"In this world, Mark, nothing is 'easy'. Every action has consequences, and every word can change the course of history. A ball isn't just a party, it's a ... .. point of no return.

She took a step back, giving Mark an appraising look.

— You look perfect." No one will question your right to be there. But remember, there's a story behind every mask. Be careful.

"I'm ready," he said, squaring his shoulders.

Kismet smiled, and this time there was pride in her smile.

"Then it's time to hit the road." The ball is waiting.

They left the room, leaving behind the last vestiges of Mark's old life. Ahead of them was a world of intrigue, mystery, and perhaps real magic.

This event was ready to welcome new guests, and the city outside seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation of the upcoming events.