Here's an extract from the book: "Forty-five minutes later, I was watching the limousines pull up next to the sidewalk, where a red carpet was rolled out in an exclusive isle up towards the five-star hotel. Eager photographers peppered those passing, pictures that would be online within minutes. I arrived in a slightly different manner. Reaching the park in front of the hotel, I’d walked for twenty good minutes from the Supro stop, fearing chafes, but so far, I’d managed to avoid them by adding a piece of plaster on the most critical part of my heel. To top it all off, it had started drizzling the last minutes, and I hid under the branches of a huge tree, with a miraculously found newspaper held as a makeshift umbrella over my head. ‘Where’s a pumpkin coach when you need one?’ I muttered and while I balanced both phone, handbag, and newspaper, I texted: I’m here. Outside. There was a reply a minute later, which seemed like forever, because the rain was picking up, and some kind of seeds from the tree was splashing up on my feet. Come round the back, it said. I’ll find someone who can let you in. I started to walk, dodging the rain best I could. Most of the block was sealed off, so it wasn’t exactly as simple as crossing the street. Again, my cellphone buzzed. What are you wearing? Couldn’t help pulling half a smile on that one. And then, quickly, another arrived: I need to describe you. I stopped, typing an adequate summary of my clothing, while water dripped on my screen, pooling on the glass, making it uncooperative. Worst part was, I didn’t even get to the back door before some ninja-looking dudes had me all surrounded, guns raised, as if I could carry a concealed weapon in this dress. But wait, I thought. I do. In my overweight handbag, damn it. ’Halt right where you are, miss,’ one of the ninja men said, weapon pointing at me, walking closer, step by step, left foot constantly ahead of the other. ’Uhm, Centuria asked me to come round the back,’ I said. ’Is that so?’ the guy said, sounding as if he believed me as much as any of the politicians inside. ’Is it possible for me to send a text?’ I asked, holding up my phone. ’No?’ He’d gotten as far as to frisking me against a rendered wall when a door suddenly opened further down and Centuria stepped out. Her deep alto pierced the air. ’That won’t be necessary, Sergeant.’ ’Oh,’ he said, head whipping back and forth between us. ’Miss Carlson here is a guest.’ ’Sorry about that, miss Carlson,’ the ninja guy said, returning my phone and my handbag, while his colleagues holstered their guns. I said nothing, rainwater dripping off my nose. The clutched newspaper was still in my hand, wavy by soaked up water, so I dropped it in waste bin along the way. The color of my dress had different shades of blue, partially wet as it was, in streaks. I wondered if the fabric would be okay, even if it dried. Sometimes the shiny ones were high maintenance. ‘The weather changed,’ I said, feeling like an idiot, when I stepped inside the back entrance, were there was a stairway, a sink, and a pair of double doors, leading into a busy kitchen. My heart was pounding, and I felt close to unreal, sharing that space with Centuria, standing there, alive and in the flesh. Last time we’d been in the same space, we’d been kissing, and suddenly my body remembered, vividly. Attracted to the visuals of those lovely lips, a new universe imploded inside of my abdomen, recalling that soft tongue. ’Uh huh,’ Centuria replied, tearing out some paper towels from a machine above the sink, helpfully extending them to help me dry up. ’I was trying to save you from the photographers.’ I dried my arms, then folded double, rubbing along my legs, from toe and up. Centuria stood there, calmly, staring at me, and I shuddered, from reasons I couldn’t really explain, only that she was way scarier in that helmet, than she’d been when we’d said goodbye early this morning. Then she’d been so present, so close. It’d felt as if I could’ve reached out in my bed, and touch her cheek, as if she was lying next to me. Now she was in the same room, but so distant and cold, wearing a full police uniform, and cloaked in that mirror visor. ’Here,’ she said, when I was done, extending a harlequin mask. ’It’s a masquerade. And it will help you…cover up most of that…smudge. Not waterproof mascara, was it?’ I snatched the mask from her and put it on. ’No,’ I said, with emphasis."