Morgan Smalley once gave me very sound advice about my heroine; she also burst into tears of joy when I got the email telling me I had an agent. Her magic is that she loves selectively and deeply—I am honored to have made the cut.

Hilary Richardson has been on my side for many years. I moved a lot growing up, so it is a constant joy to me that I am now old enough to have old friends. Hilary’s magic is that she enchants her surroundings, rendering the mundane comfortable and the absurd delightful.

All three of these people also make excellent houseguests.

It is impossible to fully express the debt I owe to Martha Reynolds, who in the four years I have known her has brought incalculable grace into my life. She is a guide and a guardian, and that is her magic.

This book could not have had a better friend than my brilliant and charming agent, Amy Elizabeth Bishop. Amy’s magic is that of story—I’ve never met someone who loves books more or understands them better. Without her vision, faith, and incredible effort, I would not be writing these acknowledgments today. I’d also like to thank my agent “siblings,” whose support has brightened so many anxious days.

Vicki Lame, my editor, possesses the extraordinary magic of the sculptor: she can see the finished piece inside the uncut stone. She has shaped and championed and guided this book, and I could not be more grateful to her. Thanks are also due to the other remarkable people at St. Martin’s Press, including Jennifer Enderlin, Anne Marie Tallberg, Jennie Conway, Barbara Wild, Naureen Nashid, Kerri Resnick, Marissa Sangiacomo, Sarah Schoof, Elizabeth Curione, Cheryl Mamaril, Devan Norman, and Brant Janeway.

As for my husband, Timothy Savard, giver of hugs, wiper of tears, champion orderer of Postmates, words will be insufficient. He is Sam’s inspiration, and like Sam, his magic is his kindness and his brilliance and his laughter.

Finally, I’ve read one is not supposed to thank animals in acknowledgments, to which I respond: Thank you to my dog, Valentino “Trouble” Biller-Savard, who sleeps next to my desk, and whose magic is love and ears and singing.

CHAPTER ONE

New York City, February 1, 1875

Alva Penrose Rensselaer Webster had been inside Delmonico’s for nine seconds before Mrs. Henry Biddington asked the maître d’hôtel to throw her out. Alva knew because she’d counted them out: one, no one had noticed her yet; two, casual glances to see who had just come in sharpened; three, people began to nudge their neighbors; four, the whispers started; five, they turned angry; six, Mrs. Biddington, gray-haired battle-axe and leader of society, flagged her waiter down; eight, the maître d’hôtel crossed to her table; nine, Mrs. Biddington made an outraged gesture towards Alva and began to complain in a voice piercing enough to be heard clear across the room.