October 25, 1869, New York.
On this day, Wall Street did not discuss stocks, did not discuss bonds, and no one even cared about the board changes at the Erie Railroad.
Because everyone's eyes were fixed on a piece of paper.
It was a card.
Seven inches long, four inches wide, and as thick as a silver coin.
The paper used a special cotton pulp from the Harper Paper Mill, with edges plated in real gold. In the center, the eagle emblem clutching lightning and stalks of wheat was pressed with sealing wax, presenting a dark red majesty.
This was an admission ticket.
A ticket to Long Island, to the Argyle Estate and to power.
Manhattan, the Union Club.
This was usually a sanctuary for New York gentlemen. But today, it was like a noisy wet market.
Thomas Hudson was a wealthy businessman in the shipping industry. At this moment, he was sitting on a leather sofa in the corner, clutching that gold-stamped card tightly. His knuckles were White from the exertion.
"One thousand dollars."
Sitting across from him was Richard Powers Jr., a young man who had just inherited his father's textile mill.
But Powers had not received an invitation.
His family had stood on the wrong side two years ago by supporting the Democratic Party, so they were excluded from the inner circle of the Argyle faction.
Powers wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Mr. Hudson. One thousand dollars, just for taking me in. I know the rules; one invitation can bring three attendants. You're bringing your wife, so there are still two spots left."
Hudson took a sip of brandy and shook his head.
"It's not a matter of money, Powers. It's a matter of credit. Mr. Argyle' invitation clearly states: 'Please bring friends you deem valuable.' If they are valuable, they are resources. If not, they are trash."
Hudson put down his glass, his gaze cold.
"If I take you in and you say something stupid or do something foolish at the ball and annoy that great man, what will Mr. Argyle think? He'll think there's something wrong with my judgment. Even my credit will be damaged. You should know my fleet relies on the Argyle Bank for insurance."
"Then... two thousand."
Powers held up two fingers.
"And I swear, once I'm in, I'll shut up. I just want people to see me there. As long as I show my face in that hall, my creditors will extend my repayment deadlines."
Hudson fell silent, weighing his options.
Two thousand dollars was no small sum; it was equivalent to four years' wages for a skilled worker.
"Three thousand," Powers gritted his teeth.
"That's all the cash I can come up with, and I might even be able to give you a plot of land I own in Brooklyn."
Hudson sighed.
"Cash, right now. And the deed to that land, delivered to my office tomorrow morning."
Powers breathed a sigh of relief, slumping into his chair. He had bought more than just a ticket; it was a lifesaver... At the same time, on Fifth Avenue, at Mrs. Durant's haute couture tailor shop.
This was a battlefield for women.
Over twenty tailors were working overtime.
The sound of sewing machines rattled incessantly like machine guns. The floor was piled with silk, lace, velvet, and whalebone stays.
Since the day the invitations were sent out, high-end fabrics in New York had been out of stock.
"No! This doesn't fit!"
A scream came from the fitting room.
A plump woman stepped out.
She was the wife of a steel mill owner from Philadelphia, named Margaret Collins.
"The waist is too thick, I want it thinner. I want that eighteen-inch waistline!"
The tailor, Mrs. Durant, sat on the floor with pins in her mouth, her face full of helplessness.
"Mrs. Collins, this is already the limit. If we tighten it any more, your ribs will break. And you won't be able to breathe."
"Then let them break!" Margaret roared.
"Even if I faint at the ball, I want to fall on the floor of the Argyle Estate! Do you know who will be there? Mrs. Astor, and even President Grant's wife! If I dress like a bucket, how can I ever show my face in Philadelphia again?"
"Tighten it! I won't eat dinner or drink water!"
Mrs. Durant had no choice but to signal her assistants to help.
Two strong female workers grabbed both ends of the corset laces and pulled hard.
Margaret let out a suffocating groan, her face instantly turning the color of pig liver. But looking at her reflection in the mirror, she revealed a satisfied smile.
For that night, even suffocation was worth it...
Washington, the Argyle Charitable Foundation office.
Anna, who had been recuperating for a while, sat behind her desk.
She wore a loose gown, cleverly concealing her slightly protruding abdomen.
Standing before her was a Senator, a Republican from Illinois named Peterson.
"Miss Clark."
Peterson rubbed his hands together, his face plastered with a fawning smile.
"I heard that the President and the vice president will both be attending this ball."
"Yes, Senator."
Anna didn't look up, continuing to review documents.
"Um... was my invitation perhaps lost in the mail?" Peterson asked cautiously.
"I checked the mailbox, and even went to the post office three times. But I didn't receive it."
Anna put down her pen.
She looked up, her eyes revealing a sharpness that belied her age.
"Senator Peterson. Last month, during the draft discussion of the 'Illinois Antitrust Act,' you seemed to have made some remarks about 'limiting the expansion of large enterprises'?"
Peterson's expression changed.
"That... that was just to appease the voters. You know, I have to put on a certain front. But when it came to the vote, I voted against it!"
"I know," Anna said calmly.
"If you had voted in favor, you would already be under investigation by the Tax Bureau, rather than standing here talking to me."
"However, Senator. Mr. Argyle does not like double-dealers. Especially those who criticize him in public yet want to drink his wine in private."
Peterson wiped his sweat.
"I was wrong, I swear I'll change. For next week's 'Tariff Act,' I will fully support increasing steel import tariffs. I promise."
Anna stared at him for a few seconds until the Senator's legs began to tremble.
She opened a drawer and took out an envelope.
"This is the last one, originally reserved for the Russian Minister. But since you're willing to be one of us, then it's yours."
Peterson held the envelope as if it were a priceless treasure, taking it with both hands. He even wanted to kiss the back of Anna's hand, but was stopped by her cold gaze.
"Remember, Senator." Anna picked up her pen again.
"This piece of paper is very light. But if you can't hold onto it, it will cut your throat like a knife."
Peterson nodded repeatedly and backed out of the room.
Anna watched the door and whispered.
"This is power. Felix possesses it. And I am learning how to use it."
Long Island, the Argyle Estate kitchen.
This didn't look like a kitchen; it was more like a factory.
Jones, the president of the Argyle & Co. Foods, wore a White work uniform and held a stopwatch.
"If you can't shuck this oyster and plate it within thirty seconds, get out of here!" Jones shouted at an assistant.
There were two hundred chefs here.
Besides the master chefs invited from France, there were elites Jones had transferred from the food factories.
The tables were piled high with ingredients.
Oysters from Chesapeake Bay, totaling fifty thousand.
Top-grade steaks from the Metropolitan Trading Company's cold storage, weighing three tons.
There was also rum shipped from the Caribbean, red wine from Bordeaux, and whiskey from the Argyle Estate's own private cellar.
Bill walked into the kitchen, followed by several porters.
"The ice has arrived."
Bill pointed to the massive square blocks of ice.
"This was harvested from a lake in Maine and has been stored in a cellar. It's perfect for chilling the champagne."
"Not enough, we need more," Jones said, glancing at a list.
"The Boss said the champagne should flow like a fountain. It must not stop."
"Don't worry," Bill patted Jones on the shoulder.
"I've emptied all the ice houses in New York. If that's still not enough, I'll send a ship to the North Pole to fetch some."
"What about the lighting?" Jones asked.
"That's not my department. That's White's job, the head of the Central Laboratory," Bill shrugged.
"I heard they've set up something big."
On the estate's lawn.
Dozens of technicians were laying electrical wires.
These weren't ordinary gas lamp lines, but copper wires.
A massive steam generator was roaring in a nearby factory.
This was the latest result from the Central Laboratory.
"Is the voltage stable?" White asked.
"A bit of fluctuation," the assistant said, looking at the meter.
"But this machine can power fifty arc lamps. These are the world's first practical electric lights."
"What the Boss wants is to shock them," White said, adjusting a coil.
"The moment the switch is flipped, the night will cease to exist."
"Those old fogies will be scared witless."
Everything was ready.
The invitations had been sent.
The stage had been set.
The actors were on their way.
Tomorrow, when the sun sets, another sun for America will rise here.
The evening of the 26th.
The road leading to the north shore of Long Island had turned into a flowing golden river.
Hundreds of carriages followed one after another, the sound of horse hooves and wheels rolling over gravel merging into a grand symphony. The faint light of carriage lamps flickered in the twilight like a winding fire dragon.
These were no ordinary carriages.
There was the Vanderbilt family's gilded four-wheeled carriage, drawn by four purebred Arabian horses.
There was the Astor Family's steady black box carriage, its driver wearing a crisp uniform.
There were even several carriages with diplomatic plates, carrying the ministers of Prussia, Britain, and France.
But three miles from the estate, all vehicles came to a halt.
A checkpoint had been set up here.
It wasn't the police conducting the inspection, but private armed personnel from "Vanguard Security," wearing deep blue uniforms and silver badges on their chests.
What they held in their hands were not batons, but the Vanguard Model 65 Rifles that had been so terrifying on the southern battlefields. Although the muzzles were pointed downward, their murderous intent could not be hidden.
"Please show your invitation."
The security captain stopped the first carriage, which belonged to New York City Mayor A. Oakey Hall. He was also Tweed's puppet.
"I am the mayor!"
Hall leaned his head out of the carriage window, looking somewhat dissatisfied.
"Is this how Mr. Argyle treats his guests?"
"These are the rules, Mr. Mayor."
The captain remained expressionless and did not even salute.
"For the safety of the President and everyone else, please show your invitation."
Hall grumbled under his breath but still obediently handed over the gold-stamped card.
The captain took the card and handed it to an assistant beside him.
The assistant merely glanced at it before pulling out a thick register for verification.
"Mayor Hall. You are accompanied by your wife and..."
The assistant glanced at the two other gaudily dressed women in the carriage.
"Those are my... nieces." Hall said with some embarrassment.
"Registration complete. Let them through."
The barrier was raised.
This scene caused those waiting in line behind them to gasp.
Even the mayor had to be interrogated, and the identities of his companions were recorded. This meant that within this estate, Argyle' rules were above the law.
In the middle of the line, inside an ordinary rental carriage.
Andrew Carnegie was sitting inside, with his brother Tom sitting beside him.
"Andrew, are we really going in?" Tom asked, sounding a bit nervous.
"We're using a supplementary card given to suppliers by Lex Steel."
"Of course we are going in."
Carnegie adjusted his tie, his eyes flashing with a complex expression of both envy and ambition.
"I want to see how high Argyle' castle is."
"Don't forget, we have Mr. Morgan's check in our pockets. The Open-hearth plant is already under construction. One day, I will build a castle even larger than this one here."
"Once we're inside, talk less and watch more," Carnegie instructed. "Especially look at who those railroad tycoons are chatting with."
...Seven o'clock in the evening.
The sky had turned completely dark.
The carriage procession finally arrived at the main building's plaza.
The guests stepped down from their carriages, smoothing their formal wear and skirts.
Mrs. Astor took her husband's arm and looked up, ready to scrutinize this magnificent and massive castle with a critical eye.
At that very moment.
"Flip the switch."
In the basement, Griffiths gave the command.
The massive steam engine let out a roar.
Around the plaza, fifty towering iron poles simultaneously erupted with dazzling white light from their tips.
It wasn't the dim yellow of gas lamps, nor the flickering of candles. It was Arc light.
Piercing and bright, just like daylight.
A chorus of gasps erupted from the crowd. Women instinctively covered their eyes, and horses whinnied in fright.
The light illuminated every corner of the plaza; even every diamond on Mrs. Astor's dress reflected the brilliance. The white granite walls appeared sacred and majestic under the intense light.
"My God..."
Ward McAllister stood behind Mrs. Astor, his mouth hanging wide open.
"What kind of magic is this?"
"This is science."
Felix's voice came from the steps.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored black tailcoat, without any superfluous jewelry, save for a small golden eagle badge pinned to his lapel.
Beside him was Catherine, wearing a deep blue velvet gown, the same color as the Argyle Family flag. Despite being pregnant, her presence was undiminished.
"Welcome to the near electrical future."
Felix smiled and opened his arms.
At this moment, he was the Master of Light.
The "old money" elites, who had just been full of arrogance and prejudice, felt a deep sense of powerlessness in that instant... The banquet hall.
On the three-hundred-foot-long table, exquisite delicacies were laid out.
But no one was in a hurry to eat. This was a battlefield.
President Grant was conversing with the Prussian minister, Alvensleben.
"Mr. President." The minister raised a glass of champagne.
"This kind of light... if used as searchlights on a battlefield, it would change the rules of night warfare."
"Perhaps."
Grant puffed on a cigar, his eyes a bit hazy. He was more interested in the whisky here.
"Felix always manages to come up with new tricks. He says this is called 'electricity.' I don't understand it, but I know this stuff must be very expensive."
Not far away, Jay Gould stood alone in a corner.
Although he had been invited, no one was willing to acknowledge him.
Because he was the loser, the dog whose leg Felix had broken and then set back in place.
Currently, he was the nominal general manager of the Erie Railroad, but in reality, he was Felix's high-level lackey.
But Gould didn't care and continued to observe.
He saw Vanderbilt speaking in low tones with William Coleman (president of the steel company).
He saw Carnegie, acting like a waiter, trying to squeeze into the circle of railroad tycoons, only to be ignored.
He even saw Jones pitching his military canned goods to a British banker.
"This isn't a ball."
Gould took a sip of wine and muttered to himself.
"It's a marketplace. It's the resource trading center for the entire America."
At that moment, the crowd parted.
Mrs. Caroline Astor walked in.
She still held her head high, but under the brilliant electric lights, the foundation on her face appeared a bit thick, and her wrinkles could no longer be hidden.
Catherine went to greet her.
This was the first direct confrontation between the two women.
"Mrs. Astor." Catherine nodded slightly, neither humble nor arrogant. "Thank you for gracing us with your presence."
"Mrs. Argyle."
Mrs. Astor's gaze swept over Catherine's belly, then looked around at the luxurious hall.
"Your home... is very bright. So bright it makes it impossible to see the stars."
"Stars belong in the sky," Catherine responded with a smile.
"But on the ground, we need to light our own paths."
Mrs. Astor was momentarily stunned.
She looked at this woman who was twenty years younger than her but controlled a massive pharmaceutical empire, and suddenly realized that her era might truly be over.
"I heard that these lamps were made in your husband's laboratory?"
"Yes. Although they are still laboratory products and cannot be applied on a large scale yet. But if you like them, we can send someone to install them in the Astor Family mansion."
Catherine extended an olive branch.
Mrs. Astor fell silent for a moment upon hearing this.
If she accepted, she would be acknowledging Argyle' technology and status. If she refused, she would have to continue living under those dim gas lamps, and all of New York would mock her for being unable to keep up with the times.
"Perhaps..." Mrs. Astor finally relented.
"Perhaps a few could be installed in the ballroom. For the sake of... seeing the guests' faces more clearly."
This was a surrender.
Catherine smiled.
"Rest assured, I will arrange it."
At this point, the orchestra began to play a waltz.
Felix walked to the center of the hall. All eyes were focused on him.
There was no speech or long-winded discourse.
He simply raised his glass and looked toward the second-floor balcony. Sitting there was the family's core team: Hayes, Frost, Miller, and others.
Then he looked at President Grant.
Finally, he looked at the entire room.
"Enjoy yourselves, everyone," Felix said. "Tonight, this place is the center of the United States."
As the music played, countless pairs of dancers glided onto the dance floor.
But beneath that cheerful melody, the real trading had only just begun.
Felix set down his glass and gave Frost a look.
"Go and invite Vanderbilt, Clark, and the Prussian representative to the study."
"Enough dancing," Felix said, adjusting his cuffs.
"It's time to divide the cake."