As we stood in the doorway to the ballroom, people turned to stare. I knew then that we were the most handsome couple there. Sinclair was gorgeous in his black tailcoat, white waistcoat and white bow tie. And my dress was as fine as any in the room. I said a silent prayer thanking Martha. As we stood, Ben, Sinclair’s friend, hurried up to us.

He took my hand and kissed it. I blushed. No man had ever done that before. “You look beautiful, Selkie,” he said, nodding toward Sinclair. “I do hope you’ll save a dance for me.”

He disappeared into the crowd. I thought again what a nice feller he was—nowhere near as handsome as Sinclair, of course—but lovely all the same. After that, so many people pressed in on us that I was beginning to get dizzy. I noticed, though, that many more women were greeting Sinclair than men. I supposed it was to be expected; after all, he was the handsomest man there. I tightened my grip on him and smiled at everybody.

Martha had taught me all the modern dances: the one-step, the two-step, the fox-trot, the Argentine tango and the one with the silly name, the Castle Walk. When the band started up, I was anxious to show off. Sinclair danced the first few numbers with me, but then excused himself to go and get a drink.

“I’m not a great one for dancing,” he said as he released me. “I’ll find Ben and send him over.”

I wasn’t happy to be left standing in the middle of the floor, but I fixed a smile on my face as some of the women stared. Thank God Ben showed up quickly and swept me up in the tango.

After a while I excused myself from Ben to go and get a glass of water. I looked around for Sinclair and finally saw him in an alcove off the ballroom. He sat playing cards with some other men, a pile of money on the table, and a couple of women draped over him. When I approached, he looked up. “Oh, hello, Selkie. Having a good time?”

“Marvelous,” I said, imitating the other women I’d heard. “What are you up to?”

“Oh, just a little game of poker.”

“That’s why we call him ‘Ace,’ honey,” said one of the women in a throaty drawl. “He loves his card games.”

I sipped my water. Up close, the two women were much older than I’d first thought. Their heavy powder had begun to crack, showing fine lines around their eyes and lips. The one who’d spoken to me held a cigarette in a long, thin holder, gripping it with fiery, red nails that reminded me of lobster claws.