In the ballroom, they hovered by an enormous collage of old theater programs, sipping champagne and getting their measure of the room. The chandeliers had been removed for the evening and replaced by crazy garbage copies of themselves made from a million glittering fragments of colored glass. Genevieve’s gaze moved swiftly over the room to spot her many rivals—the daughters, wives, lovers and darlings of Parisian culture, American shipping, Italian car manufacture and English blue-blood. The refuse theme, as it turned out, was an interesting leveler. The Princesse Martignac was hung with an assortment of buttons in place of the family diamonds and looked less than happy about it. The famously exquisite Harriet Dupont looked—well—bottle-shaped in her shiny-green-bottle dress.

Genevieve, while not entirely satisfied that her costume was more glamorous than anyone else’s, nevertheless perceived that sheer, bold confidence might give her the chance to outdazzle the pack. They’re feeling small, she thought. Take away the finery and they’re nothing.

“Everybody’s here,” said Lulu, nodding in the direction of Ernest Hemingway, who was dressed entirely in brown paper. Tristan Tzara and Francis Picabia were used métro tickets; Paul Poiret was a bizarre, multicolored tangle of fabric—was he a piece of carpet fluff? A fur-ball? “Of course, nobody can afford not to be. Or Violet will stop the money for their next little exhibition or journal or show.”

Genevieve frowned, “Where is Violet? I can’t see her.”

The band was striking up a Charleston, and couples moved out across the sprung dance floor, bird-stepping and flapping their arms.

“Come on, Vivi, let’s find some pretty boys to dance with.” Lulu’s dress was covered in shiny candy wrappers. Her earrings and necklace were strung candies, which sparkled in the glow of the garbage chandeliers as she headed off into the crowd without once looking back. Perhaps there was one woman in this room capable of competing with Genevieve….

“Ah, there you are.” Robert was dressed in a silver suit that was supposed to look like a trash can. He’d refused to wear his “lid,” thereby rendering the costume unidentifiable. “Great party, isn’t it? Say, isn’t that Harry Mortimer over there? In the newspaper suit? Looks kind of like a fish supper.”

But Genevieve wasn’t looking at the man in the newspaper suit. She was watching Lulu dancing with two men at once. The short one was the painter Joseph Lazarus, a long-term admirer of Lulu’s. The other, taller man, wearing a cream suit, was someone she hadn’t seen before. She would certainly have remembered him. He had a broad, handsome face, somewhat in the classical Greek style.

“Is it Harry, do you think?” Robert was still peering off into the far corner.

Genevieve seized his arm. “Come on. Let’s dance.”