Sometimes Mercedes would leave the candle on the floor, put on one of those dresses, and dance to the sound of an old wind-up music box that tinkled out the melody of Scheherazade. A sudden feeling of pleasure would seize her as she imagined her father’s hands on her waist, swirling her around the large dance hall while everyone looked on with envy and admiration. When the first lights of dawn began to filter through the chinks in the curtain, Mercedes would return the key to the chest of drawers and hurry back to her bed, where she pretended to sleep until a maid roused her just before seven.

The night of the masked ball, nobody imagined that the dress hugging her figure so impeccably could have been made for anyone but her. As she slid around the dance floor to the strains of the orchestra in the arms of one or another partner, Mercedes felt the eyes of hundreds of guests upon her, caressing her with lust and longing. She knew her name was on everyone’s lips, and she smiled to herself as she picked up snatches of conversation in which she was the protagonist.

It was almost nine o’clock of that long-anticipated evening when Mercedes, much against her will, abandoned the dance floor and headed toward the staircase of the main house. She had hoped to be able to dance at least one number with her father, but he hadn’t turned up, and nobody had seen him yet. Don Mauricio had made her promise—it was his condition for allowing her to go to the dance—that she would return to her room at nine o’clock, and Mercedes was not going to upset him. “Next year.”

* * *

On the way she heard a couple of her father’s government colleagues talking, two senior gentlemen who hadn’t stopped staring at her with their glazed eyes all night. They were muttering that Don Mauricio had been able to buy everything in life with the fortune of his poor wife, including a strangely springlike evening in the middle of Madrid’s autumn, in which to show off his little tart of a daughter before the cream of society. Intoxicated by champagne and the twirls of the waltz, Mercedes turned to answer back, but a figure came out to meet her and gently held her arm.

Irene, the governess who had been her shadow and her solace for the past ten years, smiled warmly at her and pecked her on the cheek. “Pay no attention to them,” she said, taking her arm.

Mercedes smiled and shrugged.

“You’re looking gorgeous. Let me have a good look.”

The girl lowered her eyes.

“This dress is stunning and fits you like a glove.”

“It was my mother’s.”

“After tonight it will always be yours and nobody else’s.”

Mercedes gave a little nod, blushing at the compliment, though it came tinged with the bitter taste of guilt. “Have you seen my father, Doña Irene?”

The woman shook her head.