By eight the next morning, Marielle had the auction hall opened and the chairs counted one by one.
Her budget was still zero, so the chairs were borrowed and the candles came out of a discount box.
Marielle: Forty tables. Two hundred chairs. If I count them enough, they might be real.
Priscilla came in at nine with two of the office staff behind her, and her red dress made the empty hall look shabbier.
Priscilla: Oh, look at this. The famous zero-budget auction.
Priscilla: Borrowed chairs. Paper flowers. Candles from the bin at the back of a shop.
Priscilla: My cousin is going to host the cheapest night in Bellcrest history.
The two staff women looked at the floor, then at each other, and one of them laughed into her hand.
Priscilla: Go on, laugh. Everyone in this building laughs at her except her husband, and he carries the trays.
Priscilla's hand closed around Marielle's wrist and squeezed slowly, so the staff could watch.
Priscilla: The family votes in five weeks. You will be out on the street with your handyman and two bags.
Priscilla: Say thank you. Say thank you for letting you try.
Marielle pulled her arm back, and the clipboard fell and slid across the floor.
Marielle: I have work to do.
Priscilla: You have nothing. That is the whole point.
Then Lionel Pemberton came through the far doors with his coat open and a folded paper in his hand.
Lionel: I heard the Dunley auction was short on money. I came to see the wreck myself.
Lionel: It is worse than I heard. Paper flowers.
Lionel: My offer is still open. One dinner, and this hall gets real flowers by Friday.
Marielle: I told you no. I will tell you no every time you ask.
Lionel: You say no now, with your little list in your hand. But a woman who cannot pay for chairs gets tired.
He stepped close enough that she smelled his cologne, and his palm covered the folded paper.
Lionel: This is a check for the whole night. All you have to do is take it from my hand, sweetheart.
Marielle: Then it is not a gift. It is a bill with my name on it.
Lionel: Five weeks, Marielle. When this fails, you will call me. And I will not answer.
Nobody in that hall pretended to work anymore. Priscilla's smile was all teeth.
She picked up the fallen clipboard and wrote the next line on her list.
Marielle: Two hundred chairs. Eight tables down the middle. No money.
Marielle: Fine. Then we do it with what we have.
Benedict stood in the doorway with his toolbox, and he had been there long enough to see all of it.
One call could pay for the flowers, the chairs and the whole night, and she would never know who paid.
He put the phone back in his pocket and watched her work.
Benedict: How many chairs, Mrs. Dunley?
Marielle: Two hundred. All borrowed. My mother is right, this is a cheap night.
Benedict: Borrowed is still two hundred. I watched you all morning. You did not stop once.
Her hands were still shaking, but her pen moved steady across the page.
Marielle: In five weeks they will laugh at me in front of every donor in this city.
Benedict: No. In five weeks they will have to sit in those borrowed chairs and watch you win.