The flat is quiet when we return. Maxine has taken Nina to the carousel at the Jardin des Tuileries, and Lena is meeting with her art teacher. I make a mental note to ask the cook where best to procure a cake to celebrate her later.

Greta has left a note on my bed. On the front is my name, scrawled in Oliver’s neat penmanship.

I unfold it.

A night just for us. Then you’ll go back to saving the world. I hope you like opera.

—OHC

I bite my lip to hide my smile, but there is no one here to see me alone in my room.

I fall into the feather pillows of my bed and nap off last night’s long hours sleeping on a marble floor, only waking when Gabrielle knocks at six p.m. to dress me.

Tonight, I’m in a borrowed gown of champagne gold duchess silk. Maxine leans in the doorway as Gabrielle laces me up. “You look like a Romanov.”

“Thank you?”

“He’s going to die when he sees you.” Lena appears next to Maxine.

“I prefer Lena’s compliment.”

My hair is in an updo woven through with small pearl pins. The gown is boat-necked, exposing a wide swath of my chest, and cinched in tight at my waist. The bustle is small, modern, even. The fabric nearly glows from within.

I’ve spent my life making garments half as nice as this, sewing until my fingers bled in the dark. It will never stop feeling like a dream each time Maxine hands me over a gown worth more than my old apartment as if it is something I deserve.

I meet my own eyes in the mirror and hate my own face, hate the terrible things I’ve done.

I extend my apologies to Maxine’s mother and stepfather for once again missing dinner, but they seem delighted by my courtship with an Ivy League–educated son of a judge. “Maybe she’ll be a good influence for Maxine,” her stepfather says after a sip of whiskey.

The flat is so quiet tonight I think Finn must be out, but I’m wrong. I catch a glimpse of him in the hall, right before the elevator dings open. He’s standing like a ghost in the hallway, dressed in a borrowed suit for dinner. His eyes are big and bruised. His mouth is open like he means to say something but it dies on his lips. Our eyes meet and for the space of a heartbeat I stare back. I hope it hurts.

I step in the elevator and exhale.

Oliver’s driver is waiting out front and swings open the door to the back seat, where Oliver sits in a tux, elbows on his knees, looking a little nervous.