She introduces herself as the Countess of Essex, and with a gesture of the diamond-covered wrist says, “And the Count of Essex.” I’m not sure if her husband hears her. He’s too busy muttering something to himself about mutton.

“You’re American,” I say more to myself out of surprise than to her.

“From Louisville,” she confirms. “The count and I met while I was abroad. It was love at first sight.”

Next to me, Lena chokes on her water. I pound her back a few times as she swallows down a cough.

The widows prove to be a lot more fun. Rose Salisbury and Hedda Heely from Philadelphia, on their way to Paris because, “Why the hell not?” Hedda laughs.

If anyone has anything to say about the color of Lena’s skin, they aren’t brave enough to say it in front of us. I’d like to see them try. There are so many sharp knives in this room, it would be so easy to make something look like an accident.

Waiters in identical white tuxedos serve course after course. Escargot, then French onion soup, then beef bourguignon.

Hedda and Rose crack each other up at one end of the table; the Count and Countess of Essex sit in mostly icy silence. The count makes exactly one comment as the snails appear on his gold-edged plate. “The French, absolutely mad,” he mutters, and his wife laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

I don’t understand his comment. They taste mostly like butter to me.

Lena and Maxine and I do a halfway convincing job of acting like respectable young ladies. We claim to be students studying at Barnard College.

Maxine spins an elaborate story of our history of art studies. We’re going to Paris to study medieval portraits of the Virgin Mary, she explains.

“How lovely,” Hedda says.

“Always found her more interesting than the rest of the family,” Maxine says with a raise of her glass.

I swallow a laugh at their horrified expressions.

Even with our false identities, dinner is a bore. I’m surprised by how quickly I’ve come to miss the barely controlled chaos of mealtimes at Haxahaven.

One of the little girls climbing into my lap to finish her dessert, or Maxine keeping me updated with who was caught with whom in the second-floor broom closet this week.

I sometimes fear my life at Haxahaven is boring. Most days are the same, rising early to eat breakfast with the same people I always see. In the afternoons I teach groups of wide-eyed young girls how to use the magic that lives within them, and in the evenings I read or walk or let Maxine beat me at cards until I’m tired enough to fall into sleep. It’s a quiet life, but one that feels true.