I picked up her candy and ate it myself.

“This young man will only end up hurting you,” she said, taking my hand. “He’ll eventually take a wife and his attentions will turn to her. And there is no chance of it being you. You are not of the same class, and whether he says so or not, he considers himself better than you. Is that really a path you want to go down?”

The caramel was sticking in my teeth and tasted overly sweet. “What if it is?”

“Then you’re making a mistake.”

“You don’t know that.”

She caught hold of my chin, forcing me to look into her eyes. “Are you in love with this man, Cécile?”

I jerked my chin free. This conversation had gotten away from me.

“Well, that explains a great deal.”

I got to my feet, retrieving my box of candies and Tristan’s note. “This is my life, Mama, not yours. Sometimes I think you forget that. Now I’m going to get ready for rehearsals. It would not do to keep everyone waiting.”

The clock bonged six times, and I fought the urge to go to the window to check for any sign of the carriage.

“He’s with Bouchard, who is chronically late,” my mother said, from where she sat reading a book. She’d switched strategies from this morning, now employing passive-aggressive indifference in her attempt to dissuade me from this path. “Don’t fret.”

“I’m not fretting,” I said, smoothing my lace gloves over the rich blue velvet of my dress. The bodice was both tight and low, revealing the slight curves of my breasts, which were amplified by the added padding. It was one of my new gowns, and I could not help but admire the sleeves, snug to my elbow and loose in a spray of lace that hung to my wrists. The crinoline puffed the skirts out from my hips, the velvet slashed to reveal the lace petticoat beneath.

My shoes were matching brocade with ribbons that wrapped around my ankles, and I wore sapphire and diamond earrings that Sabine had deemed a perfect match to the dress. She’d fixed my hair so it was up, a few curls left loose to frame my face, and rimmed my eyes with kohl and tinted my lips.

A knock sounded at the door, and I leapt up. “I’ll answer it,” my mother said, rising far too slowly for my tastes and then ambling toward the door. “Good evening, Monsieur de Montigny,” she said. “Please do come inside. Winter is truly upon us.”

“How is your hand?” Tristan asked, but whatever she answered went unheard in my ears as I adjusted my dress for the umpteenth time. When I glanced up, he had rounded the corner with her, and our eyes met.

His disguise was in place, eyes grey instead of silver and skin altered to a duskier, more human hue. But all else was the same, and even if he had made himself unrecognizable I still would have known it was him. I loved him; so much so that my chest felt tight and my breath short, and everything else in the room seemed wan as a faded painting.