watch as more guests trickle in and the count plays host. Maybe Isabelle is being as enthusiastic about evening dresses as she was about hats. Finally, in a swish of skirts, the countess swans in with Isabelle in tow. Their arrival is the cue that my own performance is about to begin in earnest, and my head begins to swim with agency rules, Girard's training and Marie-Josée's advice. The countess greets her guests. In a stunning emerald-green gown, she wears the medal of handsomest woman in the room with ease. Isabelle looks less confident but is also beautiful in a magenta silk—she is touted like a mascot, her mother's protégée. They shine like jewels and I shrink back in my seat. The lace of my dowdy dress hasto, dance with, look at? Which gentlemen are receptive to her, who is making a play for her attention? She is silent as stone when I ask her opinion on anyone." She selects a bottle of perfume and dabs some on her neck. "You're quick. I bet you notice everything with those unremarkable eyes."

Her insult feels less cutting paired with the backhanded compliment. At least she thinks me intelligent.

She picks up another glass bottle from her collection and swivels around to hand it to me. "Here, smell this," she instructs.

I take the bottle and remove the lilac stopper, which is shaped like a flower. Somewhat hesitant, I inhale the scent. "It's pleasant," I say. "Like spring."

"I detest it. Too sweet. The count should have bought me jewels instead."