Alas, there was wine on the table. Anna held her drinking glass aloft, and said, “À votre santé,” and the others murmured assent. The wine was delicious, Hugo noted. Aarne reappeared, all four plates ready, each with a sprig of parsley. Hugo anticipated what delicacy would fill the rest of the plate, and while so waiting, missed the cue to pick up his fork. Aarne said, “The pantry is rather dissipated, Monsieur Hugo. We apologize.”

Hugo’s head, with no effort, turned toward the buffet table, where the cheeses and pig still lay.

Aarne continued, “Alas, some things, in the chaos, spoiled. Though they make excellent decorations.” Before Hugo could entirely weigh this feeling, Aarne said, “Another casualty of the chaos, Monsieur Hugo, is that manners have been sporadic. Allow us this chance to use ours. Please, drink and eat.”

There were four pairs of eyes upon him as Hugo had his first bite of parsley. He was unsure how long to chew, when to wipe his mouth, if compliments were in order.

“My sisters and I thank you for coming, Monsieur Hugo.” Anna had spoken. She spoke French with a throaty hoarseness, almost a whisper, as if she wanted not to overstate anything. Which she did not, for she didn’t want to scare him away from marrying her.

“To serve you is my pleasure,” Hugo replied.

“You serve us in more ways than one,” Anna replied. “You help us observe Lord Chesterfield’s rule that a dinner party, excluding one’s self, should not fall below the number of Graces, nor exceed the number of Muses.”

He had to think about that as he took a long sip of wine. In one sentence, Anna had justified her title. “Quite.”

The parsley was replaced by the second course, a clear broth atop which floated parsley. The new course meant Hugo should talk à droit, with Maria, the middle princess. Maria had been born with dark-brown eyes shaped like narrow crescent moons, as if Tartar blood had floated to the surface, which had made the question of nubility loom over her since childhood. Because she had no suitors, and did not fool herself that anyone could like her face, she wore spectacular frocks.

Since he was a soldier, she felt he must know Paris. She fought against shyness to ask if there had truly been a bomb thrown through the showroom window at Premet Couture, destroying the spring 1919 line.

Hugo couldn’t understand what she was getting at, and he was again distracted by something. “Pardon—Princess Maria, do you feel like you’re being watched?”

She didn’t understand what he meant. Since she was a princess, she always felt she was being watched. Further, Vasilisa was interrupting with short sentences, hardly even full questions, just names he wasn’t sure he heard pronounced correctly.

“Buffalo Bill?” Vasilisa said, or so Hugo thought. He was having increasing trouble understanding, so he sipped more wine.

“Pardon?”