It was like walking into a tropical garden in which several flocks of rare birds had exploded. Feathers jutted in all directions from silk-flowered hats and bosoms. Entire wings swooped up from some heads; on others, taxidermied robins nested among swathes of lace. The gowns below were a hysteria of colors that would have sent any painter mad. Such an array of jewels glinted in the chandelier light that the air was thick with rainbow fragments.

Twelve ladies altogether attended the meeting. The youngest was Essie Smith, who had barely made her début before her parents were killed by the curse of the Black Diamond; she’d inherited their Palladian town house and had spent the next five years looting the northern counties before settling down to motherhood. The oldest was Verisimilitude Jones, known as Millie the Monster, blight of the Cornish coast: so old was she that rumor had it she’d once stolen a cake from Marie Antoinette. She piloted a quaint, thatch-roofed cottage despite being rich enough to own a castle, and had taught Cecilia how to use a cutlass.

No men sat at the table, having been left at home to mind the children, guard the treasure, or quite frankly just stay out of the way of women’s business.

Cecilia’s heart warmed as she looked upon the ladies. She suspected that, no matter how old she became, she’d always feel a rush of comfort when she entered their company. The motherless child she’d been, hiding behind their skirts, listening to their madcap bedtime stories, and absolutely trusting that they’d keep her safe from her father, could never imagine anyone so powerful, or so magnificent, as the Wisteria Society ladies.

Now she was eligible to become one of them herself. They could not deny it since another Society member wanted her dead. Surely today would be the day of her induction!

Why, how unexpected! she reminded herself to say when they pulled out the chair. She’d probably be placed down at the end of the table by the condiments, but even so. You are too kind; I am not worthy, she would murmur as she lowered herself onto the cushioned seat, back straight, head high albeit hatless, while a maid poured her tea.

Envisioning it, she tried not to smile or rock on her heels like an excited little girl.

“Jemima,” said Gertrude Rotunder, rising in a flurry of blue lace, ribbons, feathers, and flounces to greet her latest guest. “How lovely to see you. And in such good health, too.”

(Mrs. Rotunder had recently failed in an attempt to have Miss Darlington assassinated by means of trained parrot, unaware of Miss Darlington’s belief that parrots carried syphilis and were therefore to be scrupulously avoided. This had been in retaliation for Miss Darlington’s theft of Mr. Rotunder’s leg, which was said to be inlaid with wood from the True Cross, and yet only fetched five hundred pounds on the Catholic black market. Mr. Rotunder—a thin, anemic gentleman who’d never been quite right since a mad doctor sawed off two of his limbs only moments before rescue arrived—had been willing to let the matter go and live out his days in a rocking chair, writing letters to newspaper editors with his one remaining hand and sighing mournfully every now and again, but his wife would have none of that. When the assassination attempt failed, she took solace in stealing Miss Darlington’s favorite mahogany cabinet, from which a new leg was made for Mr. Rotunder, and thereafter all was well again between the ladies.)