The clock in the hallway chimed eight. Robert was out in the Bentley with Pierre, waiting. They already had the engine running—Genevieve could hear it purring away down in the street. Sitting at her dressing table, she patted at her newly waved hair, adjusted her sash, tried to enjoy the gold kid pumps.

The countess’s shoes—those layers of spidery, silvery lace, their delicacy…They might break if you so much as touched them—they might vanish like a broken spell…

A horn sounded outside.

And then there was that other worry. Guy Monteray and the death-head skull. She’d been feeling nervy this past week, since their encounter at the Coyote. Often in the street, she’d hear footsteps close behind and think she was being followed. She’d tried to send her worries away, reminding herself that Monteray was a poet and a playboy. He liked games and she’d allowed herself to be drawn in. That’s all it was—a game. In time, it would all fade away.

But still she’d resolved to instruct the doormen at Count Duvel’s mansion not to let him in.

The horn came again.

“All right,” she muttered. “I’m coming.” Gathering up her wrap, she headed out into the hallway, only to draw up short at the half-open door to the shoe room.

A girl was standing there, gazing into the long mirror. So tiny that she might have been an elf. Bathed in the weak evening light, she stared at her feet in the mirror, turning them this way, that way…

Genevieve caught her breath. And it was then that Céline, the maid, looked up.

Céline was wearing Genevieve’s Joseph Box court shoes. Shocking rose pink with dusky green piping, a Louis heel and a ribbon tie. Genevieve had been wearing them earlier and had left them lying on the floor before the mirror.

Céline had been hitching her skirt up to admire her gently curving calves and delicate ankles. Her hair, normally worn in a tight little bun at the back of her head, hung in soft curls around her face. Her cheeks were red, even before she looked up and exclaimed. Genevieve hadn’t quite been able to see her eyes before she’d started and spun around, but she could guess how they would have looked—how much Céline would have been reveling in this secret moment.

She’d never taken much notice of the maid. Why should she? She was a twitchy little thing of fifteen or sixteen, with mousy hair and a scuttling way about her. Genevieve had grown up in a house full of servants and was only truly aware of them when they made mistakes. This, of course, was Céline’s biggest.

“Madame! I’m so sorry.”

“Do they fit?” whispered Genevieve.