The Remigrant mansion glittered that night, twinkling with the light of a thousand stars. Emma had helped to light what must have been half of the candles in Denver, she'd sat through a full hour of Mrs. Remigrant twisting her thick red hair into a respectable updo, and she was trying not to tear her too- tight gown as seven- thirty crept closer and closer. The musicians in the ballroom- a string quartet and pianoforte- warmed up their instruments with fingers still icy from being outside.

The party wasn't for solely Emma, of course. That would have been terribly embarrassing. Mrs. Remigrant insisted that it was just a little get- together, nothing big, just a regular old weeknight dance.

"You needn't stand like a statue," the lady said as she walked by Emma.

Emma turned her head from the window. "I fear that I'll tear the dress if I move," she replied breathlessly. The corset was incredibly tight, and not the old one with the relaxing strings she'd had at home.

Mrs. Remigrant laughed. "You'll not enjoy yourself much if you refuse to move. It's a ball, dearie, not a wax museum."

The sound of horses' hooves and carriage wheels interrupted whatever Emma had been planning to reply. Her breath caught in her throat.

Was this it?  The first guests of the night?

Who would it be? Her heart leaped. Perhaps an old and established couple. Perhaps it would be an eligible young man.

Oh, she hoped not.

Then the wheels passed and the hooves faded, and Emma could breathe again knowing it was just someone passing by on the street.

"Calm yourself, or you'll have a fainting spell before the party's even begun. And-" The refined grey head tilted, scrutinising Emma in the bright yellow candlelight. "Your face is different. Have you always had such high cheekbones?"

Colour flushed Emma's face. "I forgot about that," she lied. "It's cosmetics. I was playing with them, just toying, you know, and-"

A raised eyebrow from the lady stopped Emma's rushed words. "Accent, please."

"Sorry," Emma rushed again, this time conscious of how flat she had to make her words. Americans spoke with no tilt to their words, no roundness or filling whatsoever. "I was toying about with cosmetic powder earlier today and forgot to take it off."

"Well, it looks fine, and you haven't time now to wash it off. Why were you using them in the first place?"

Emma shrugged. "I wanted to change how I looked, I suppose. It's very strange to have a new name and a new life, but the same face."

Mrs. Remigrant chuckled, turning away in a swoosh of mauve silk. "Wait until you get married, dearie."

Emma opened her mouth to ask for some clarification, but a knock echoed through the entry hall and her mouth clamped itself shut instead. At least the lady didn't seem angry about the cosmetics.

A rush of cold March air fluttered through the hall as the wide doors were opened, sending shivers up Emma's rustling skirts to her back.

And people started to come in.

Emma was introduced to each of them by Mrs. Remigrant, although most of the names flew from her restless mind as soon as they had been said. There were pretty young girls who chattered; old women who were the chaperones; men with baby faces, sharp jawlines and everywhere in between.

 A small get- together indeed, thought Emma. There must have been seventy- five people coming through the door from the cold March night! What did a Saturday night party look like?

"Augusta!"

The jubilated call came from a round, ruddy man. He took the gloved hand of Mrs. Remigrant and kissed it as she forced a smile.

"Mr. Billings, how good to see you again," she remarked, pulling her hand away. "May I introduce my niece, Miss Remigrant?"

"Charmed, I'm sure," replied Emma, using the words she'd been repeating all evening.

"Very much the same," replied the jolly man, taking Emma's glove- encased hand and kissing it.

"This is Robert Billings, dear, he's owner of three livery stables in town here-"

"And two in Santa Fe," Mr. Billings said proudly. 

"Really, we must be moving on." Mrs. Remigrant crisply cut off any other words that the balding man could have said. "Delighted to have seen you again."

"Delighted to have seen you," he replied. "And to have met your lovely niece."

As he walked away, Emma shuddered. 

"The good friend of my son Joshua," Mrs. Remigrant explained quickly in a whisper. "A bit too happy about life, if you ask me. His very presence is exhausting."

"I agree," Emma whispered back. She was already exhausted from the party and it had hardly started. "May I sit?"

"That is almost everyone here you've been introduced to, so- are you quite alright?"

I don't know, Emma wanted to say. Her head was swimming with the ladies' perfume and the sound of the musicians.

"Yes, yes- I only need a moment."

Her head beginning to pound, Emma found her way into a chair just inside the ballroom.

The music continued to lilt, and people continued to talk and dance and generally ignore her.

I hope this party isn't representative of all of them.

A few songs passed and Emma was mostly content to sit, watching the skirts swirl. She was still terrified of ripping hers. Looking down at her lap as she sat primly, she fiddled her fingers over the fine weave of blue silk. It was easily the finest thing she'd ever draped herself in.

"Are you free this dance?"

Emma looked up with a start. It was an average- height, dark haired man who looked bored and tired; much as she felt.

"Yes, sir," she replied. Her heart sunk as she stood. What was that accent that had just come out?

The man's eyes widened. "Are you from England?"

Her heart skipped a beat as she took his black- gloved hand. "Y-es."

Lying? It wasn't like her. And she was certainly not from England, but Emma wasn't about to shatter the man's image of her.

"How interesting," he went on as they began to dance. "I've a good friend from London, and I've not been there myself. What is it like?"

"It's... lovely. Lots of people." She tried to maintain the accent.

"You don't speak the way my friend does."

"I'm not from London. I'm from-" her mind searched all the English cities she could remember- "Bath."

"That would explain it."

The dance ended and Emma felt dizzy again as her partner released her. "Thank you, sir, for the dance."

"The pleasure was mine." He kissed her hand.

By the time the night is over, she thought, I'll have a hole worn through my glove from all the kisses.

She walked away, wondering why so many words were necessary to be part of polite society, and sat again, grateful for the respite.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Mrs. Remigrant had appeared form nowhere. "Did you like Mr. Hughes?"

"That was his name?" Emma asked, rubbing her temples. "Oh, he was fine, I suppose, but we didn't dance long and he thinks I'm from England."

"What on Earth gave him that idea?" Mrs. Remigrant shook her head. "Oh, bother. That doesn't matter. If he liked you, though, that would be very good indeed. Mr. Hughes," she went on in a whisper," is very high up in the railroad business. He's worth thousands of dollars." She was hopeful- of what Emma neither knew nor cared.

"That's nice," replied Emma, not caring one whit. "May I go lie down a moment? My head aches."

The wrinkled brow wrinkled further. "Of course, but will you come back down later?"

"Perhaps," Emma replied, already knowing that that was a lie, and she wasn't planning on getting out of bed until long after the sun came up the next day. 

Although, she wondered, would I ever turn down another invitation?

We're back at it with Pinterest images of my characters' clothes(which you should be familiar with if you read The Flower Crown Princess)! I always love to imagine costumes as an integral part of a story or a culture. The dress at the top is Emma's, except I like to imagine it as completely blue rather than just the over- skirt.

What are you expecting to happen in the next chapters?  I'm excited to share them...

Fun fact: Emma's slip into being English is a reminder to the world that I once convinced a random kid that I was an English exchange student at a church dance. Good times.

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