The instant I set foot inside the large Chelsea house I know that agreeing to accompany Charlotte to what she had promised me would be a “harmless soirée” was a mistake. In the hallway we are met by frantic ragtime music coming from a gramophone positioned at the foot of the stairs. Every available inch of space is taken up by people dancing, many still clutching their drinks, all to the accompaniment of shrieks of glee and raucous laughter. Some of the hemlines are higher than any I have seen before, and most of the dresses so flimsy and diaphanous as to be startlingly revealing. I feel horridly drab in my black gown with its modest neckline, corseted waist, full sleeves, and heavy skirts.

“Charlotte!” I hiss at her as a harassed maid takes my coat. “You promised me this would be a quiet affair. A handful of interesting people engaged in diverting conversation, I seem to recall you telling me. You said nothing about wild partying. Look at all these people!”

“It does look rather lively,” she confesses. “Not to worry, Lily. No one here will know who you are. I told you, this is a chance for you to have a tiny bit of fun for once. Is that so terrible?” she asks, unwrapping the fur stole from her shoulders. “Oh! An ice sculpture. Look! It’s a turkey. To celebrate the turkey trot, which I insist you dance later on. It’s a scream. Isn’t it all too wonderful? Now”—she takes my arm and leads me into the melée—“have a glass of champagne and stop looking so cross, or no one will dare speak to you.”

We battle our way across the hall and into the drawing room, which has been cleared of furniture to make more room for dancing. It is a large room, with long windows, much like any other built at the same period, but it is unlike any I have stepped into before. Every surface—walls, ceiling, even the floor—is covered in the most intricate murals, all rendered in vivid colors and touched here and there with gilt. The scenes depicted are of medieval maidens and knights in armor, or fairylike creatures drifting through tangled forests. Or half-naked figures languishing among flowers. The effect is striking. I am sure the space would feel full of frantic life even if it were not full of revelers. And what revelers they are. Many are dressed in the most outlandish ways possible, as if each were trying to outdo the next. There is a preponderance of exotic fabrics and styles of clothing, with many of the women, and quite a few of the men, sporting bejeweled turbans.

“Mama would have a fit of the vapors if she knew I was here,” I protest.