I had heard the art exhibit is gorgeous. Despite being present, I was simply taking those around me at their word, though the aural feel backed their claims. In defense of the hard-working people who undoubtedly put much work into it, the area smelled wonderful, and the music created a wonderful ambience – it wasn't too loud or too soft, but perfect, and it kept the conversations inside at a respectable level. The musicians clearly know their instruments well.

I swayed in place, eyes closed, listening to the classical music, trying to determine how they also managed to make it sound so ancient and modern at the same time. They truly were skilled, as it matched the exhibit perfectly. The old artifacts surrounding the viewers, dressed in striking gowns and spiffy tuxedos, talking quietly about how wonderful the art is, exuded an ancient aura, while the people's modern auras mixed with it. And surprisingly, the mixture wasn't abhorrent as it could sometimes be.

I mused to myself how wonderful art can be. Art is one of the few the non-living things I've found to have an aura of its own – likely because the people who make it infuse so much of their own, and the art nearly comes alive, gathering auras around it for the rest of its existence.

So many times in my life I've tried to explain why I insist on loving art and going to galleries, but no one believes my aura story, though they do sometimes humor me.

I maneuver myself over to another piece, a vase-like artifact, which has an aura that calls to me. I keep to the edge of the crowd, listening to the music, catching bits of conversation, and feeling my long black gown flow around my ankles.

Once I reach the vase, I'm interrupted by a waiter with a tray of champagne.

"Care for a drink, madame?"

"I would love one," I respond smiling, and hold out my hand. It takes him a moment to register that I'm not looking directly at him, and another couple of seconds to deduce why, but eventually he places the stem of the glass against my fingers with a clearing of his throat, and I take my drink.

"Thank you," I say, and listen while he walks away, hesitates, then continues on quietly chiding himself for being so thick. He probably nodded his head in reply to my thanks. His aura has become tinged with a matte yellow, telling me he's embarrassed. I just chuckle quietly to myself and sip my drink.

The vase is more alive than the other pieces, and I can't figure out why. Its aura is brighter and almost pulsing, something usually reserved for art that is exceptionally famous and garners many visitors per day – such as Starry Night which I saw at the Museum of Modern Art in New York not long ago; its aura was exceptional and it remains one of my favorite pieces.

Yet that does not explain this piece, only recently found, along with the rest of exhibit, and experiencing the prestigious opening night of its first presentation.

I take another sip as I ponder, and then purse my lips.

"Is the champagne not to your liking, my dear?" says a man walking up to my right, interrupting my thoughts.

But I know him, recognize his voice and the humor in it, his walk, and most importantly to me, his aura.

"The champagne is lovely," I respond as we exchange cheek kisses before turning back to the interesting vase, "how have you been, Chester?"

"Ah, the usual stressed when my space is being used for an event," he says jovially, not truly minding – he loves people and events mean people.

"Thank you for getting me an invite, the art is wonderful." I say, meaning every word.

"You're most welcome, my dear, though it's not as if you would not have received an invitation anyway. The daughter of an international multi-millionaire who nearly owns the computer tech industry ranks high on any guest list."

I hum quietly, reluctantly agreeing, and sip my drink again, feeling the expensive diamond bracelet slide down my arm, given to me by my father for my 24th birthday the previous month, and probably picked out by his secretary.

"May I ask a question, my dear?" I hear him ask after a moment of quiet contemplation.

"I don't ever recall a time when I was able to stop you," I say jokingly.

"I am very forward, aren't I?" he muses to himself before continuing, "You've told me many times why you insist on attending these events, but I must ask why this piece has seized your interest so? There are many more enchanting artworks present tonight."

"You mean there are more expensive artworks here tonight, and it's likely you aren't only speaking of the inanimate objects." I remind him ruefully, trying to suppress my smile.

Chester laughs loudly, drawing I'm sure, some glaring looks for disrupting the ambience so carefully crafted. But from the soft sighs I hear immediately following, I guess there are some young women here tonight who no longer care that the handsome young man disrupted anything.

From what I've been told, the twenty seven year old who has been my friend since I was three, is quite gifted in the looks department.

"Despite the abundance of money in this room, from the value of the art to the value of the people, this piece exudes a life of its own that I can't explain. It's intriguing." I finally explain.

Chester has long since gotten used to my cryptic answers, and while I can tell he doesn't believe in auras, he supports me in my supposed delusion.

"Well, I suppose whatever floats your boat. Speaking of boats, have you decided whether or not you'll be joining my family and me this weekend? You know Olivia loves you, and she enjoys the yacht more when you tag along."

"I've been meaning to get back to you on that. I would love to join you. Thank you so much for the invitation." Chester makes a noise in the back of his throat that I know is his verbal equivalent of a shrug.

"No need for thanks, you're part of the family, you know that."

I have spent a significant amount of my life with the Kinley family. After my mother passed when I was twelve, my father pulled away and dove into his work. The Kinleys, already family friends, pretty much took me in. Chester's father, Marcus, is my father's business partner, and his mother, Cynthia, is the owner of a successful law firm in New York. My father became very invested in public image, and the Kinleys were the only people it was acceptable for me to be seen socializing with, in his opinion.

"Oh!" Chester says suddenly, snapping his fingers and startling me, "I almost forgot, my parents sent me with their belated birthday gift."

I listen to what sounds like him pulling something from inside his jacket pocket.

"Turn around," he says, and I can hear him undo a small clasp, so I turn and lift my hair from my neck.

Chester secures the heavy and cool necklace around my neck and after he clasps it, I turn back and feel the necklace.

It's a simple chain, with a weighty tear-drop pendant that lands just between my breasts, falling perfectly between the deep-v dress cut of the dress. I can feel a large and smooth stone set into the pendant with smaller stones patterned around the edge; the overall effect exudes an exquisite aura. Art and precious stones or gems are a couple of my favorite things, not for their worth, but for their spirit. It's something I expressed to Marcus and Cynthia when I was thirteen, and they've never forgotten, always getting me one of the two as gifts from then on.

"It's a silver chain and pendant setting. The large stone is green opal, and the smaller ones are alternating moldavite and alexandrite," he explains, "what's its aura?" he asks. Like I said, he humors me, and so does his family, always asking the same thing when I'm given a new piece of art or jewelry.

"It's green, very green, very natural. It feels like earth, the metals and smell of fresh soil, but like in a meadow. The opal has green, and blues, and a little brown, it makes it so complex." I say, smiling widely, thoroughly in love with this new necklace.

"Thank you so much!" I exclaim, hugging Chester excitedly, and nearly dropping my champagne in the process.

"Woah there, let's watch that, shall we?" he says good-naturedly, taking the nearly empty glass from me. I can hear the small noise as he deposits it on the passing tray of a waiter. I don't mind not finishing it, I'm too entranced by the necklace.

"Anyway, mother and father picked it out, and I think Olivia helped as well, you can thank them this weekend." What I don't tell him, what I have never told any of them, is that I can always tell exactly who chose it. Precious stones and gems are funny things – they seem to understand intent, and take an imprint of the aura of those with good ones. When the Kinleys search for things for me, the things recognize caring and good intentions, and the imprint magnifies as they handle it before gifting it to me. My response to it sort of completes the imprint, ensuring the gem will always hold a piece of them, so when I wear the gift, it's like having them nearby.

It's for this reason that I'm nearly always wearing my mother's favorite ring, aside from her engagement and wedding rings – those I keep on a chain and wear daily, just not to galas. No, the small lapis lazuli ring set in a twisted silver band was my mother's favorite, and is a family heirloom on her mother's side, always passed down to daughters. She gifted it to me in her will, and I've almost never taken it off since receiving it.

Chester is still talking, "Olivia went on a whole rant about why they picked it, and I'm sure you'll get the same one this weekend, but it boils down to: it matches your eyes, and they know it's some of your favorite colors." I smile and laugh, he's right, on both counts; I'll probably get the same explanation, and it is my favorite colors.

Suddenly Chester covers my left hand with his, stopping the fiddling I'd been doing absentmindedly with the lapis ring on my right. It's a giveaway that I'm thinking of my mother, and he never fails to comfort me.

"I'm okay," I assure him, patting his hand with my right.

"I know you are, I'm just reminding you that you're not alone." He says. I can feel his attention being drawn away for a moment, and I can feel the aura of someone not far away – a woman, and her whole being is focused on Chester, though she's being coy.

"Well, my dear, I'm afraid I have some business to attend to, enjoy your auras and I'll find you later tonight," he says.

"'Business' he says," I say to him, "does this business have anything to do with the woman roughly ten feet behind me giving you doe eyes?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"How do you do that?" he asks incredulously, still not used to me knowing these things, despite how often I attempt to explain.

"I may be blind, Chester, but I'm not blind." I say, knowing he hears the difference.

He chuckles, presumably shakes his head, and kisses my cheek again in affection before going off on his own.

I sigh and turn back to the vase, fingering the large opal stone for a moment. Then the vases' pulsing aura stutters for a moment before regaining its previous rhythm, snatching my attention once more.

That's odd, I think. I've never seen art or gems do that before, and I haven't the foggiest idea what it means.

When I can discern no reason for the stutter, I decide to take a break from figuring out this particular aura, and tune into those of the people around me. That's when I notice the odd behavior of some as a man begins walking through the throng of people.

Typically, auras sort of stretch to touch those around them; I've always considered it either a by-product of, or the reason for, the human need for social interaction and contact.

However, in the case of this man, the auras around him don't react to his presence, and as I pay more attention, neither do the people. This strikes me as odd, since his aura is commanding, reflecting a commanding personality, as well as confident.

Recognizing the confidence makes it even stranger that the auras don't reach out. We truly are a mix of the people we spend the most time with, and our auras drive us near those with strong or desirable traits. Charismatic leaders I've met have had the same feel to their aura as this man crossing the floor of the gala. And yet it's like he's invisible.

I'm still facing the vase, but my whole attention is focused on the man walking through a sea of people that don't seem to even notice him. Turning wouldn't do much for me anyway; I don't see with my eyes, and I haven't since I was twelve.

His aura is intricate, and I love puzzles and mysteries. He has green in the middle, but it's clouded with murky blacks, like it's being strangled, an unusual combination if I've ever seen one. Green is goodness, good spirits, and humor. Black is never good, it shows malicious intent or even evil, but in his aura it feels foreign, like it's not his own, though I've never felt anything like it. He also has red streaks flashing outside the black, meaning passion and strong will, maybe the reason the black hasn't clouded out the green yet, if my assumption is right. He also has blues and browns, the gold color I've come to associate with confidence, and he also has some yellow invading the edges inside the gold. The gold shimmers and is bold, while the yellow is dark and flat, showing insecurity hidden behind confidence, though the confidence is very real.

There isn't much you can hide in your aura, but they are complicated, just as people are.