“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Webster,” Alva began, although, in all honesty, she thought it too opulent and heavy, the dim lighting only adding to the vague oppressiveness of the decor.

“Thank you,” she replied after a delay. “I must admit, however, I rely heavily on my husband. He has such wonderful taste, you see, and I—” She raised her hand slightly off the table and gave a wobbly little flutter. “I’m afraid such decisions are beyond me.”

Well, that made sense. It was hard to imagine the pale woman beside her choosing anything, let alone that embossed burgundy wallpaper. It was so … aggressive. This woman should live in a house with open windows and fluttering white curtains, the smell of flowers drifting in—Alva’s mother caught her gaze sharply across the table, recalling her to the moment. As she racked her brain for other conversational topics, she saw Mrs. Webster’s cuff had resettled slightly askew, revealing a dark bruise at her wrist. Almost as soon as Alva saw it, the other woman flicked the lace back in place. Alva looked down in chagrin—bruising must be a symptom of the blood disease. It had been terribly rude to stare, and she could only hope she hadn’t embarrassed her.

Alva wished Alain were next to her. He always knew what to say—sometimes she felt so naïve and gauche next to him. She wished he would look at her.

It seemed impolite to ask about hobbies, given his mother’s illness. Even the weather was a fraught subject—did she even go outside? Alva hoped she did. There was something about her that reminded Alva of some of the animals at the menagerie in Central Park, those that had been caged too long and had lost their spark. Like they’d simply given up.

Alva didn’t like to go to the menagerie.

Her mother caught her eye again and frowned. This was not minding her manners.

With an internal sigh, Alva turned to the one truly safe topic of New York female society. “Your dress is beautiful,” she said. “Is it French?”

“Yes,” she replied after another strange pause. It was as if the sound was traveling an enormous distance to meet her. “Mr. Webster helps me choose all my dresses, and the French designs are the best.”

They were the best, but it was odd Mr. Webster would have so much input in his wife’s wardrobe. Or perhaps not; she was an invalid, after all. “I’m so looking forward to seeing Paris,” Alva said. “I know Alain loves it, but I’ve never been.”

Mrs. Webster nodded, her eyes flickering to Alain and back, an unnatural emptiness in them. Alva shifted in her seat, uncomfortable without knowing why—

“Mrs. Webster? Ma’am?” Liza’s voice was muffled through the door.

Alva blinked, disoriented. “Yes, Liza?”

“Can I bring you some tea? Only you looked a bit pale—”