Most of the shops on Fournier’s block were shuttered, their owners having given up for the day or for a lifetime. A parade of ants as wide as a man marched down the street carrying bits of fabric, plaster, brick, and iron, disappearing into an open sewer grate. From below the street came a grinding, sawing noise. I preferred not to imagine what could produce such a grisly sound. And there, in a hideous brick building on the south side of the street, her display windows fogged by a decade’s filth, the corset retailer struggled on.

A forlorn bell announced my entrance, and I was greeted by the spindly figure of Madame Fournier, whose skin was like tissue paper and whose accent was less Riviera than Fulton Fish Market. The little bell had awoken her like a gunshot, stirring a sense of salesmanship that had been rusting for years. She introduced herself—Madame Fournier, but I could call her Marguerite.

The shop was tidy. Towers of corsets in every color and size stretched to the ceiling, immaculately organized but coated in a fine layer of dust. Within moments, I was being spun, measured, fitted, and judged. With every measurement, her unkempt fingernails scraped my exposed skin.

“Such a figure you have, such a figure,” she fawned. “How do you like this periwinkle?”

“Perfect.”

“This is our finest model—strictly prewar quality. You see the lacing, that’s done by hand, of course, and all in front so you can take it off without a servant’s help. It’s light enough to wear in the summer, but the boning is so strong, it can stand up to anything.”

She strapped me into her contraption, wrapped the laces around her fists, and pulled. Stars danced before my eyes, and I knew how it would feel to be stepped on by an elephant. She posed me in front of the mirror. My waist was the size of a nickel, and my breasts appeared to be trying to strangle me.

“Perfect,” I wheezed.

“Normally, this sells for a dollar seventy-five, but since the season is changing, it’s yours for one thirty-five.”

“A bargain.”

Her razor-sharp fingernails split open her knot, and the sides of the corset sprang out like a popped balloon. I breathed deeply, feeling my organs rearranging themselves inside my chest.

“Shall I ring it up for you?”

“Do you mind gift wrapping it? We single girls get so few presents. I like to have something to unwrap when I get home.”

She curtsied for some reason and reached her arm between two racks of truly terrifying girdles. A shove, and the wall popped open. She swung one of the racks to the side, stooped, and disappeared. I wandered over, rubbing fabric between my fingers and checking price tags until I could see what was behind Fournier’s secret door.