She sweeps in, wearing a simple emerald sheath with a cunning slit up the side through which black lace peeks. Long black gloves cover her arms. I never pay clothes much mind, but April Hart’s clothes force you to notice them, the same as a tiger prowling down the street.

“Bedtime already?” she asks, eyeing my flannel nightgown. She strides over to the chaise longue and places her suitcase upon it.

“Early day tomorrow. Is your, er, plan working?”

She grabs my hands. “Forget the filet mignon. House of July was on the menu tonight.” With a girlish shriek, she whirls me around, spinning a laugh out of me. Then we fall upon the bed and let the ceiling spin above us.

“So your crane was lucky.”

She lightly snorts. “Someone asked Lady Lucy Duff-Gordon her opinion of House of July, and she said it wouldn’t survive ‘past summer.’”

“So, she has wit.”

“Yes, but”—her eyes glint—“she didn’t eat a bite of her dinner. Claimed she was seasick.” April starts giggling again, and I can’t help joining in.

A trickle of longing, like a sip of lukewarm tea, runs through me. Within the span of only a few days, I’ve felt the stirrings of kinship toward two young women, both of whom can never be more than acquaintances. You can’t just climb a staircase to friendship. It doesn’t work that way. But even friendships with girls occupying the same “deck” in life as me have been elusive. I relied on Jamie more than I should have. But isn’t that the point of family? They’re supposed to be reliable.

Sobered, I stand up and shake out the rose trousers dress. “I thought of a solution that will make visits to the lavatory easier in this.”

“Oh?”

“Buttons down the front instead of down the back.” I hold up the dress so she can visualize it.

“Buttons down the front imply you can’t afford a maid.”

“What if you concealed them, the way they sometimes do with men’s shirts?”

She taps a finger against her red lips. “A hidden placket.”

“Yes.”

Removing a glove, she runs her pinky down the front of the trousers dress, as if drawing where the buttons might go. “It would take very careful cutting, and if the fabric is a print, there would be no margin for error.” She grins. “Valora, you’re making my bladder gladder. Say, you ever consider a job in haute couture? I could use a good mind like yours.”

“Thanks, but I’m auditioning for the circus tomorrow on the docking bridge. Eleven a.m.”

“I heard. But if that doesn’t work out, look up House of July when you’re in New York. There’s always more than one color that suits.” She winks.

I watch her unfold a black and yellow dress in a striking honeycomb pattern. “Why did you name your brand House of July?”