The shoes were somewhere between ivory and silver, and appeared to be made entirely of lace. Lace layered upon lace, spidery and fine. A slipper shape and a Louis heel—not too thick, not too high, not too low. Delicate toes. There was something about these shoes…beautiful but subtle. Quietly calling all attention to themselves without the need to scream out. Genevieve’s heart ached for them. She wished so much that she was wearing them in place of her own purpose-built poetic pumps. She’d been proud of them at the start of the evening, but now they seemed, frankly, childish. They were no more than fancy dress accessories, and this was wrong. Shoes should always be more than accessories.

She absolutely longed for those lace slippers to be on her feet, and instead…

Instead they were adorning the feet of their hostess, Violet de Frémont.

The countess was wearing a black dress overlaid with paper doilies, and had a doily hat perched on the back of her head. She was a good-looking woman but with features a touch too soft to be conventionally beautiful. That nose was almost piggy. She had something, though. She’d been painted and sculpted by everyone, and not just because of her money. And her ankles were perfect, her feet tiny. The shoes were divine on her.

“Genevieve, I’m so glad you could come.” Violet, clutching a glass of champagne, was making her way over. “Oh, and Lulu, darling, the singing was wonderful. I wish I had a voice like yours.”

“Sensational party,” said Genevieve. “And may I say, those shoes are adorable.”

Violet almost purred with pleasure. “Aren’t they?” All three of them looked down as she turned her feet this way and that to be further admired. “You know, last night I had to get out of bed at some ungodly hour just so that I could take them out and put them on and look at them in the moonlight. Etienne woke up and found me dancing around in my negligé with the curtains open, gazing at my own feet. Can you imagine? He thought I’d gone stark staring mad!”

“I hadn’t realized you were such a shoe connoisseur, Violet,” said Genevieve.

“Really? You must come round to see my collection some day. Oh—oh!” And now she seized Genevieve’s arm. “But look, here comes their creator! Genevieve, Lulu, this is Paolo Zachari.”

A velvety-looking man stood before them. Thirty-five or so. Soft black eyes. Black, tufty hair that was slightly too long—you wanted to stroke it, smooth it. His unusual suit was very dark—almost black, but with a luminous glow that just hinted at blue. No refuse costume for him. His face was serious but with something subtle happening at the mouth—something that was not quite a smile. His face was somehow familiar.