the smuggler’s bible

Amahle

“What really matters is how we behave tonight,” Amahle says, tugging at the ends of her bow tie. It’s the color of a sunset—deep, deep violet fading to electric yellow. The strata run perfectly parallel to the slats in her shutter shades. “Nobody will remember last time.”

“I think, actually, that you invited all the same people and most of them came precisely because of what happened last time.”

“You’re exhausting.” Amahle sweeps open the doors and smiles over her shoulder. “If it’s a repeat they want, they’re out of luck. That clown won’t even take my calls anymore.”