The women began to discuss their costumes: Violet was dressing as a bar of soap in a cream oil cloth sheath, with Palmolive in green letters across her chest. Olivia was going to be a jar of Ponds cold cream. George would be a pint of bass ale, and Edward hadn’t yet decided what to wear. Ginie could hear Stravinsky talking to the men on the other side of the room about translations.

‘If one has composed something to a particular language, one should not allow it to be performed in other languages, as the language itself is part of the music.’

She wished she could join them instead.

Ginie had a bad habit of drinking too much champagne when she was nervous. She was tipsy by the time they sat down to dinner, but was immensely proud of her dinner table. Set with Venetian glasses, decanters of wine, and vases of purple and cream lilac, it looked festive and inviting. The menu was chosen to appeal to Stravinsky – caviar and Russian hors d’oeuvres, followed by sole Waleska in a delicate cheese sauce.

She sat with Stravinsky on her right and George on her left. She wanted to speak to Stravinsky, but George had got it into his head to question her about her background.

‘Where are your people from?’ he asked, as she watched him try to place her olive skin and dark eyes. A flash of irritation ran through her, eclipsing the desire for acceptance. Her head was reeling from the champagne. Very well. If George thought she was exotic, she would not disappoint him.

‘We’re originally from Wallachia in Rumania,’ she said.

‘Oh, really? How interesting.’

‘Yes. Vlad the Impaler was my great-great-great-great uncle.’

George gave a short, startled laugh. Sour fumes of whisky spilled from his mouth.

‘His full name was Vlad III Dracula,’ Ginie went on. ‘Some people think that he was the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula.’ Everyone was listening now. She could feel Stravinsky’s gaze on her.

‘So, you know of Vlad?’ she asked the table at large.

‘Yes, of course. He’s terribly famous.’

‘Or rather, famously terrible?’

‘Didn’t he dine among his impaled victims, dipping his bread in their blood?’

Uneasy laughter rippled around the table. Ginie sipped at her champagne, thinking about Rosa, about her strength and her ruthlessness. She had certainly inherited her share of the Impaler’s genes.

‘Actually, he was one of history’s most misunderstood rulers,’ she said. ‘Imagine spending your teenage years as a political prisoner of the Ottoman Empire.’ Her eyes moved from person to person as she spoke, catching and holding their attention. ‘Vlad was taken hostage to secure his father’s loyalty to the Ottomans – Vlad Senior ruled a war-stricken region in another country.’

‘I never knew,’ said George.