hung up on the walls.
The natty gentleman riffled effortlessly through the hangers, to at last take out an
incredulously tight white tulle dress. “And voila!”, he said excitedly, visibly enamored with his
own creation. Shocked by the size of the garment, Savannah let out a muffled gasp. “What’s
wrong?” he asked, not delighted that she didn’t share the same views as he did on the garment.
“Are you sure this is mine? It looks a tad small and honestly, quite revealing,” she said coyly.
He shook his head in denial and looked at her in awe.
“This is what you will be wearing,” he said ponderously, stressing each syllable and pausing
between each word as if he were lecturing a child. And just like that, he sent her away, moving
his head from side to side with great dismay, as if she had deeply disappointed him with her act of
insolence.
The ground trembled for a few seconds, shaking the white teepees and their inhabitants.
Savannah, together with the mentor Bianca had assigned her, Tessa, emerged out of her tent. The
venue, or ice palace, was being raised, its snowy towers resplendent in the sinking sun. It looked
as it had been taken from an ancient fairytale. The Oligarchy was living in a complete fairytale.
“Aisha Sine,” announced a tan beauty, before clearing her group of equally graceful followers:
“and those six are with me.” She opened her jeweled clutch and absent-mindedly handed
Savannah nine invitations, jokingly conversing in what seemed to be Turkish or Arabic with her
friends. “Oh, and dispose of the two other cards; their recipients couldn’t make it.” Simultaneously,
all seven girls burst into laughter, revealing their identically irreproachable pearly whites.
“Have a nice evening,” muttered Tessa for the thousandth time, as the clique proceeded
through the doorway lined with crystal icicles.
A sun yellow sports-car careened around the corner, stopping abruptly in front of the ice
colonnade marking the entrance of the palace. A brown-haired gentleman swaggered up to the
reception desk, turning his car keys round one finger. “Ladies, Sir Adam Worth. My name is on
the list,” he said in a heavy, contemptuous British accent.
“I’m afraid we need to see your invitation, Sir,” Tessa requested politely, determined not to let
the man in without first having seen the document.
“My name is on the list. I don’t know what else you need,” the man replied rudely, crossing his
hands to establish the authority he supposedly exerted.
“Your invitation, Sir,” insisted Tessa.
“This is ludicrous! If you did as I asked and checked the guest list, you would know that I am
indeed a guest. Get me your manager,” he ordered fiercely.
Having noticed the interruption in the normally constant flow of guests, Bianca was at present
walking towards the two girls and the troublemaker. “What is going on?! I said no scenes,” she
whispered angrily between her teeth, whilst smiling reassuringly to the other guests.
“These misses won’t let me enter,” he said in frustration. “I am Sir Adam Worth, which you
would know if you checked the guest list, as I instructed you to,” he said directing his voice
towards Tessa.
“Do you have an invitation?” Bianca asked, visibly annoyed by the delay the man had caused.
His rolling of eyes revealed that he didn’t. “Then I am afraid we cannot help you. We may only allow
* * *
