I go to my wardrobe for something suitable to wear. Unfortunately, there are no dresses in with my new clothes. I run my fingers along the rail and my hands brush against my old dresses. There’s nothing in my new Italian wardrobe that would fit in at Langton Hall. These beautiful colourful scraps would be as out of place as a butterfly in the damp, dark hallways of my home. Mother and Father would also never throw a party like this one; they would never open up the house to whoever wanted to come. There would be a guest list, a seating plan, the same slender circle of approved acquaintances rolling through the door again and again. I close my eyes for a moment, thinking of my home and of my parents and feeling a pang that I am finding so much happiness being away from them.

When I open my eyes again I find comfort in the room around me. This room which is warm and full of light is friendly, already familiar, already so much my own.

With a sigh I drag out the best of my old dresses and button myself into it. It feels tight and restrictive.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Ursula.

“Can I come in?”

She looks ethereal in a dress that is a column of spun gold, her eyes heavily lined in dark kohl. Like a nubile Egyptian queen.

I sigh. Taking a deep breath, I open the door more fully.

Ursula looks at me for a long moment, her nose wrinkled, and her mouth a moue of distaste.

“What is it?” I fold my arms defensively across my chest.

“Why,” Ursula asks heavily, “are you wearing … that?”

“You make it sound like I’m wearing a potato sack.”

“You might as well be,” Ursula says bluntly. “That dress doesn’t fit you, Bea. Not in any way.”

“Well unfortunately it’s all I’ve got,” I reply. “But thank you for filling me with such confidence.”

“I think we can do a little better than this,” she says slowly. “Wait here.”

I sit on the bed, my posture rigid thanks to the restrictive nature of my dress. Several minutes pass before Ursula bursts back into the room, her arms full of black material.

“Are those Klaus’s clothes?” I ask as she dumps them on the bed.

She hushes me impatiently, rifling through my wardrobe for a white silk shirt. “Put these on.” She hands me a pair of Klaus’s trousers. They are black and edged down the side with inky black satin ribbon.

“Is this a tuxedo?”

“For goodness’ sake, Bea, are we going to stand around talking about it all day,” Ursula grumbles, sifting through the items on the bed. “Haven’t you ever heard of Marlene Dietrich?”

I shrug, and the movement is accompanied by a loud ripping sound, as the seam on my shoulder splits quite dramatically.