Whisper by Alyson Noël

heaping platters of food were not there by choice—they were just as enslaved as the gladiators. Slaves to the house instead of the arena, but still slaves all the same.
    “Are all of these people ghosts?” I asked, directing the conversation to a more neutral subject, partly because I was reluctant to annoy her again, and partly because I really was curious. “Are all of these people choosing to haunt this place?”
    I gave the room another once-over, wondering why so many slaves would choose to linger in such a wretched, thankless role. But then, it was just like she’d already told me—every ghost had a story. And while I hoped someday they’d find a way to move on, that wasn’t my job. I was there to learn about Theocoles, to focus on the lost soul that had been assigned to me, and no more.
    “Some are ghosts, some are not.” Messalina shrugged. “My intention was to re-create the celebration exactly as I remember it, so that you can better understand the world that Theocoles lives in.”
    “So, where is he?” I glanced around the room without really expecting to find him. After all, Theocoles was a slave, a gladiator; I seriously doubted he had any real part in this world—or at least not this side of it—the more glamorous side of it. “Is he here? Was he allowed to come to parties like this?”
    Messalina nodded, her face cautious, guarded, her arm rising, finger pointing, as she said, “He is right over there.”
    I followed the gesture to where a group of gladiators stood at attention, their arms and legs shackled, as a crowd of partygoers stopped to inspect them. Pushing and prodding as though the fierce warriors displayed before them existed for no other reason than to quench the crowd’s morbid amusement.
    I started to rush toward him, but didn’t get very far before I was stopped by the firm grasp of Messalina’s long cool fingers encircling my wrist. “Not now.” She looked at me, her smile tight, forced, not the least bit genuine. “You will meet him soon enough, I give you my word. But for now, we have much more pressing matters to attend. We must find a new name with which to call you.”
    I looked her over, my face dropping into a frown, not liking the sound of that, not liking it at all. I mean, how could that possibly be more important than my meeting Theocoles? And besides, wasn’t it enough that I’d changed my appearance? Now she had to mess with my name as well?
    But before I could lodge a complaint, a slave bearing a large clay jug brushed up against me, bumping me in a way that set me so off balance, got me so spun around, I found myself facing the opposite side of the room where I saw something so incredibly startling, all I could do was freeze right there in place.
    Only this time it wasn’t a shiny, reflective surface that distracted me.
    This time it was a boy.
    A boy who looked at me in a way that … well, in a way that I’d never been looked at before.
    With curiosity.
    And intensity.
    Along with a healthy dose of unmistakable interest.
    The same way boys used to look at my sister, Ever—the way they looked at Messalina—but never, not once, at me.
    Or at least not the old version of me.
    My face grew hot while my hands went all shaky, and I continued to stand there all frozen and stupid and utterly foolish.
    I had no idea what to do. No idea how to react. I was as clueless to the customs of the time as I was to being stared at by boys.
    I continued like that, a frozen, gaping mess until Messalina finally stepped in and saved me from my own awkward self, when she said, “It’s like I said earlier, you not only need to look the part—you also need to play the part. C’mon, it’ll be fun.” She reached toward my forehead, smiling as she ran a finger across the width of my brow, pushing a loose curl to the side—the feel of her touch stealing my anxiety and leaving calm in its place. “I’ve done the hard work for you—I’ve narrowed it down to two