Lord, she was tired of this, of feeling like the odd sister out. Mamie, the self-assured and strong one, not to mention Daddy’s favorite. Justine, their mother’s favorite daughter, was the righteous and kind one. Florence was . . . nothing. The daughter they rolled their eyes over; the girl no one understood. She hated society, while Mamie and Justine tolerated it. She wanted to explore the city, while her parents insisted they stay north of Forty-Second Street. She had no interest in marrying and turning her life over to a man, while Mamie was practically betrothed, the understanding arrived at years ago.

Florence had always been the problematic one.

Florence, be a good girl in church today.

Florence, do not say anything outrageous during tea.

Florence, stop encouraging the housemaids to unionize.

So she’d learned to play the part. To lie and pretend. Whatever the situation required, Florence adapted to blend in. Mamie had once called her a chameleon. Florence rather liked the comparison. Changing was certainly easier than fighting to be noticed all the time.

Only her grandmother seemed to comprehend Florence’s real nature, the burning need to do something else with her life. Which was why Florence loved their grandmother like no other person on earth.

“Look, they’ve torn down those two houses over there, the ones up the street from Granny.” Justine pointed out the window. “Who lived there?”

“The Turners and the Hoffmans, I think,” Mamie said. “The houses were stunning. I wonder why they were torn down.”

Florence murmured in agreement, though it wasn’t that unusual. New York City was forever building up and tearing down. Old and new. Outdated and modern. And some of the people who lived up here had more money than sense. Why, there was a castle with an actual moat a few blocks north.

And in less than two years there would be a casino just for ladies. Wouldn’t that send Knickerbocker tongues wagging? She’d be an independent business owner, relying on no one other than herself.

The carriage slowed to a halt in front of a large four-story stone house in the middle of the block. The house’s front door cracked before the wheels even stopped rolling. Granny appeared on the front stoop, her tall frame clad in a smart purple silk morning gown. Her hair was mostly gray, with only a hint of the dark brown from her youth. She was a handsome woman, still fit and sharp as a tack. A formidable society matron, Granny held the annual Forsythia Ball each spring, which made Mrs. Astor’s Patriarch Ball look like a child’s tea party.

The three sisters piled out of the carriage and stepped to the ground. Florence let Mamie and Justine precede her, as she always preferred to enter her grandmother’s home last.

“You look tired,” Granny said when Florence finally climbed the step. “Should I be worried?”