“Oh!” she says. “That is a lovely costume! I feel quite underdressed.”

I laugh softly. “I believe a traveling minstrel would appear underdressed next to me. I decided that if I was coming to a masquerade, I would make the best of it.”

I swirl, letting my skirts spin around me, and she claps.

“It is beautiful,” she says. “Such bright colors. Wherever did you find them?”

This, I realize, is the true reason why my dress is so much brighter than the current fashion. Not because women here prefer drabber attire, but because they do not yet have the dyes necessary to make the colors that women—and men—in my world prefer.

“That is my secret,” I say, laying a finger to my lips. “However, if you like the dress, I could let you have it afterward. The style is hardly fashionable, but you could use the fabric for bonnets or such.”

She hooks her arm through mine. “You are kind, Miranda, but I would never ask such a thing.”

“Do you think I could wear this dress in London?” I roll my eyes. “No, it is for tonight only, and then you may have it.”

As she leads me into the house, I look around to see I am indeed more elaborately dressed than most. In addition to my unusual nineteenth-century gown, my mask covers most of my face, in hopes that if I do encounter Norrington, he’ll never recognize me. I also have my hair down. Most of the other guests, not quite knowing what to expect from a “masquerade,” have simply paired a normal party dress or jacket with a mask.

Emily wears a gorgeous cream dress with embroidered flowers in rust and orange and green. It’s wide at the hip—a style I’ve only seen in paintings—with a slender bodice and natural waist. She pairs that with a sweeping cape and hood of black lace and a black mask. It is very stylish and flattering.

When Emily says, “Oh! There is my uncle!” my heart gives a stutter, even though I am clearly not the pink-cheeked boy he met with Nicolas.

Norrington is, as Emily said, deep in conversation with other wigged men, as if they are at a business meeting. He isn’t even wearing a mask, unless one counts the stony expression on his face.

“He seems busy,” I whisper as Emily leads me over. “Perhaps later?”

“Nonsense, he will be no less ‘busy’ later . . . nor tomorrow nor the next day. My uncle lives in a permanent state of busy. Yet he always has time for me.”

She is correct. The moment he sees her, that stone softens, and he even manages something like a smile.

“And here is my dear niece,” he says. “The instigator of tonight’s festivities.”

“Instigator?” Emily says. “That sounds suspiciously like laying the blame, uncle.”

His smile grows a fraction, eyes warming. “Architect, then? Is that better?”

“Much.” She rises to kiss his cheek. “May I introduce my friend, Miss Miranda Hastings?”