“When are you due?” I ask her.

“I still have three months to go!” She looks down at her belly. “I hope he comes sooner, honestly. I’m pretty sure he’s ten pounds already.”

“He?”

She nods as she squeezes her foot into the sandal. “Damn.”

“What is it?”

“My feet have swollen so much. I probably shouldn’t have taken them off in the first place.”

“What size are you?”

“Seven and a half normally but these days, eight.”

“Here,” I say, slipping my feet out of my flat sandals. “We can swap. I mean, if you want. They're not as pretty as yours, but they’re a size eight and probably more comfortable than those.”

She looks at my sandals, then at me. “I swear mine are torture devices, Ivy,” she says, trying for a laugh.

“They look it. I don’t mind. These are a little big on me anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod, some part of me wondering how I’m going to walk in the spikey heels, but I’ll make it work.

“Thank you. Really.” She smiles so warmly I wonder again how much we have in common within The Society.

“I’m happy to do it.”

“I have your veil,” she says, surprising me.

“What?” I ask, tying the sandals. They’re a little tight but not too bad.

She turns to me. “I came in here that night. When…the marking.” She lets her gaze drift like she’s embarrassed for me, and I wonder if she saw us in here. If she saw what he did. No, that’s not possible. She was out near the courtyard, but maybe she guessed.

“Oh.”

“I repaired the tear.” She clears her throat as if just realizing how awkward this conversation is about to get. “I can bring it to you. I mean, if you want it.”

“You repaired it?”

“I like to sew, and it was such a pretty veil. It was a shame not to.”

“Thank you.” I’m not sure honestly that I want it back, but I do want a friend. I could use one, and she seems nice. And a little like me, maybe.

“Should you be home, Colette? I mean,” I start, looking at her stomach, “you don’t look very comfortable.”

She smiles and shrugs a shoulder. “Jackson likes these gatherings, so well, I’ll be fine.”

“Jackson is your husband?”

“Yes. Jackson van der Smit.”

“I don’t know the name. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re not one of…I mean, Mr. De La Rosa chose…” She breaks off. “That’s all coming out wrong.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, realizing she means to say I’m not from one of the upper-echelon families. I guess she must be to know.

“I just meant you couldn’t know. I didn’t mean to sound arrogant. I mean, I hate that whole thing.”