Florence remained in the garden for a few hours, unsurprised to find purple hyacinths appearing wherever she paused to weed or water. Despite the distraction of tending to her plants, misery grew with each breath until it throbbed like an open wound. She found no relief in retreating to the mansion and waiting to fall numb; the walls pressed in with suffocating pressure while she paced around her room, all too aware of the empty bed.

Footsteps approached her door. She quickly locked it, in no mood to be scolded by Hilda.

Instead, Annie's timid voice drifted through the worn wood. "Miss? It's time for your breakfast."

"No, thank you, Annie. I'm not hungry." Bitterness filled her mouth at the idea of forcing down dandelion tea as though it were just another morning.

"Yes, but... Miss Hilda wants to see you."

"No, Annie. I wish to be alone right now. And if she's concerned about Mr. Rosewood, then let her know I am alone. He's left."

Silence fell. Florence sat at the dressing table, making sure to face away from the mirror, and clasped her hands in her lap. Her fingers felt cold while she stared out the window. The thick fog had swallowed all signs of the outside world.

It was difficult to think. The heaviness in her mind seemed absolute. Yet she remained clear-eyed about what had happened. Despite knowing better, she had fallen in love and irreparably wounded herself. Such pain wouldn't fade in a day. She must accept its presence because there was no other choice.

Slowly, she grew aware of what left her breath so shallow: panic. Would she give up and let her days return to their old shape and form? Had years of guilt crushed her beyond repair? Perhaps her taste at romance had dissolved like sugar on the tongue, but it was still possible to build a better life. She could cling to the safety of the silver bracelet Tobias had given her, cling to the fact that no one around her would be in danger until the next full moon. She just had to be brave enough to take that freedom and explore other desires.

After a moment, she opened the desk's drawer and sought out Louise's letter, flipping it over to study all the suggestions her cousin had made on how to enjoy the glitz and glamour of the city. A list of events included the note that Louise had pulled enough strings to make sure she wouldn't have to pay a single penny for anything. It still seemed wise to visit the bank and learn the state of the account her father had made for her when she was a child. She couldn't begin to guess how full or empty it might be.

And afterward... a fashion show at the Westervelt Hotel began at ten that morning, a time she could easily make. What else? A haircut? Yes, that might be pleasant. She certainly hated how limp and unbecoming her hair looked in its old-fashioned bun.

Doubt bit at her. These ideas seemed frivolous, better left to the safety of daydreams. Her sudden appearance in society would raise questions—questions she must answer on the spot. Could she remain composed among strangers when the slightest glance from Tobias—patient and sympathetic though he had been—had tied her in knots?

Another knock came at the door. Now Molly's voice called out. "Miss? Miss Hilda is in the front parlor with the yarn like normal. She says she expects you there in a few minutes."

Then the day had already been planned out for her, beginning with the familiar task of knitting baby caps and booties for the city's orphanages. A placid preoccupation for her whenever Francine or Hilda thought she dwelled in too much self-pity. The charitable work was impossible to protest against without seeming thankless toward her own good fortune in life, but oh, how she hated it. Not because she was terrible at knitting or sewing; indeed, throughout the years she had grown adept enough to make several sets in one afternoon. And that was what she detested about the whole thing—her proficiency came from knitting clothes for other babies because there was no chance of having her own.

Anger burned the last of her hesitancy. "I'll be out in a few minutes, Molly. Thank you."

Then she chose a hat, gloves, and coat with stiff yet sure movements. As she tucked Louise's letter into her purse, she tried to remember the name of the bank her family had always used. Crescent First sounded right. It hadn't been within walking distance, but there was no use asking Luther to get the car ready; the man never wanted to be within sight of her. Well, then. Francine kept money in her study for household errands, and there was surely enough for cab fare.

Upon entering the study, she couldn't resist running fingers over her father's journal and the books on botany. They appeared untouched, but she still hid them in the desk. Then she found a roll of money in the top drawer and took a few of the bills, dimly surprised by the steadiness of her hands despite the wicked deed. Any sense of guilt seemed to have evaporated, and she next approached the front parlor with straight shoulders and a steady step.

The room looked just as she'd envisioned: a fire flickering sullenly in the overlarge hearth, the worn velvet of the furniture faded from its original burgundy to the brown of an old bloodstain, and then Hilda herself, a stark shadow in the weak light of the flames.

"Miss Flossie, what are you doing?"

She didn't flinch at the severe tone. "I'm going out. I've decided to explore the city."

Hilda's hands froze against her knitting. "What? In your condition?"

Her own words remained flat and cold. "My condition is fine. I've been allowed weekly visits to the cemetery all these years without issue. I don't see why this trip should be any different."

"If you mean to find that—that—"

"No." The idea of running after Tobias blistered her raw heart. "It's not about him. Simply, he showed me how wearing silver keeps my form stable, and now I'm curious to see all the things I've missed while locking myself away in this mansion."

"It's dangerous," hissed the other woman. "For you and for others."

"I don't agree." Nothing more needed to be said, yet she found herself adding, "What if we've been wrong for years? If my affliction can be managed with silver, then perhaps its true nature can be discovered and explained, even cured. What if there's no need to hide me away?"

"Do you hope to hear my approval for this madness? I still have nightmares about what you did to your poor parents, and to Mr. Springer, too. There's nothing that can describe how they looked."

Florence swallowed hard. "Will you try to stop me from going out?"

The other woman sighed. "You know I can't."

"Then I'll be home by supper." Before she lost her nerve, she turned and left through the front door. Now she was grateful for the fog, aware that it hid her from view almost immediately and muffled her heels against the grit of the driveway. A thread of fear wrapped around her determination when she passed the crimson roses of the hedge, but she would hate herself more if she turned back. It was time to find out whether she still knew how to interact with other people on her own.

As it turned out, she did, at least well enough to catch a taxi near the cemetery without any odd looks. A twenty-minute drive took her to Crescent First Bank, a grand building with the towering columns and weathered marble of neoclassical architecture. A part of her wanted to linger on the front steps and study the structure for differences in design from the ancient remains she had seen while abroad with her father, but the presence of several other clients drove her to hurry inside.

The process was easier than anticipated. Her small personal account, made right after she'd returned from the Ulflands, was perfectly in order, and she withdrew enough to replace the money she'd taken from Francine's study. The teller handed her the amount with hardly a flicker in his eyes, which left her emboldened enough to then ask, "Is it possible to speak with someone about the family accounts?"

"The estate or one of the trusts, ma'am?"

She saw no reason not to be honest. "I don't know. I suppose I'd like to learn the general state of them all."

Paper rustled as the teller checked the account records. "Mr. Collier is your advisor. His next available opening will be at three o'clock today. Shall I put you down for it?"

"Yes, thank you." Her fingers tightened against her purse with fresh resolve. She deserved to know about the family finances as well as Francine. Now she just had to find ways to pass the time.

She reached the hair salon on Louise's list without incident and fought not to stare open-mouthed at the gorgeous interior of the reception room. Ivy trailed along white peacock statues flanking the black door that led into the rest of the salon. The carpet was a plush pink that matched the chiffon drapes. The sharp geometry of the furniture prevented a cloying atmosphere, and so did the crisp tone of the receptionist—a girl whose black hair was styled shorter than some men's—as she asked Florence for her name.

Florence gave it and then drew in a fresh breath, ready to explain that she had no appointment but hoped there might be openings available.

Yet the girl's expression had already warmed into a smile. "Louise's cousin. She told us to expect you. You came in at the right time, you know. There's a hell of a storm blowing in tonight, and several clients canceled today since no one will be able to go out for three days, perhaps more. I don't understand it, myself. Even if the city is flooded out, I see no reason not to look good while bobbing around on a raft."

"Yes," murmured Florence, unable to get another word through the girl's chatter as she was led through the door and to a stylist named Mildred.

"Quite old-fashioned to have long hair these days," said Mildred, as Florence stared at her reflection in an elaborate mirror of stepped panels and gold trim. "But you have the type of face where anything will look good with the right care. Those high cheekbones, my! How daring do you want to be?"

It had been years since her hair had been cut with anything besides pruning shears whenever the tips grew too ragged. Florence decided to be bold. "I would love something short yet feminine, and stylish as well. I'm tired of looking like a grey mouse."

Mildred's eyes flashed with excitement. "I know just what to do."

It wasn't a boastful claim. By the time the woman had finished, Florence's hair barely fell past her chin. Without the weight of a longer length, its natural wave appeared, and Mildred's skill transformed it into a thick, glossy bob that framed her face and spectacles wonderfully. She appeared softer, not so pinched in the cheeks or mouth, and years younger. "I can't believe it. I look like a completely different woman."

"Yes. Quite the swan now." Mildred sounded pleased. "See you next week, doll. That is, if the city isn't completely flattened by the storm."

The cab ride to the Westervelt Hotel gave Florence a vivid glimpse into the chaos of inner-city traffic. With relief, she left the honking horns and jeers for the quiet murmurs of hotel staff helping guests, wondering if it would be as easy as stating her name and that she was there to watch the fashion show.

It was.

"Your cousin has already explained everything, Miss Wheeler. There's a seat waiting for you in the front row."

The sights were breathtaking. The hotel was old, and while some parts had been remodeled to add the latest fashions, the large room that held the fashion show and its audience still displayed the grand flourishes of past centuries. The walls were carved with intricate frescoes, and the lavender-upholstered chairs for the audience had their backs and legs painted gold. It reminded her of the first time she'd ever tasted marzipan—an experience so luxurious as to shock the senses.

As she took her seat, she quickly grew aware of the other women present. The two rows of chairs bordered a thin, golden carpet rolled out for the show, meeting at one end like a horseshoe. A small audience, then, which suggested the show to be very exclusive. Florence knew better than to stare at the socialites across from her, who all looked elegant and bored while murmuring to each other.

She didn't miss the brief glances her way, and resisted the urge to hunch her shoulders. A new hairstyle couldn't reshape her nerves, unfortunately, and at the moment, the room likely held some of the most famous and renowned women in Crescent City and beyond. Was it as before, when she'd been a girl? Did she have to be formally introduced to others before anyone would speak to her? Perhaps not. From the gossip columns in the papers, a woman's brazenness only seemed to boost her standing in modern society.

For the next few minutes, more socialites arrived to take their seats, their movements as studied and graceful as though they walked down the runway themselves. The chair on Florence's left remained empty, while the woman on her right chatted with an obvious well-known acquaintance. Florence tried to appear interested in the program leaflet while casting furtive glances among the surrounding faces, wondering if she would recognize any. Some of the ladies looked the same age as her mother's old friends would now be. She wasn't sure if it was better or worse to be recognized as the reclusive daughter of vivacious Anya Wheeler.

Whispers continued around her. A few women seemed skeptical of her presence among them. Annoyed, even. Perhaps they were trying to work out who she was. She looked very little like Louise, after all.

Just as her fingers fidgeted with the leaflet, one of the women in the front row across from her stood up and approached. A girl more than anything; she couldn't have been even twenty. Despite her youth, she wore some of the most expensive furs there. Frank curiosity lit her eyes as she approached with a confidence that Florence envied.

When the girl sat in the empty chair next to her own, Florence remained unsure of what to say. She needn't have worried.

In a voice as breezy as her smile, the girl asked, "Are you related to Louise Wheeler? It's just that she's gone overseas, you know, and you're the only unfamiliar face here."

"Yes." It was hard not to sound relieved that someone was willing to talk to her. "I'm her cousin, Miss Florence Wheeler."

"Miss Cora Marshall."

The name had a ring of familiarity, but Florence couldn't quite place it while they shook hands. She decided there was no use in hiding her ignorance. "Are you good friends with Louise?"

"Oh, no. Dedicated enemies," said Miss Marshall, cheerfully. "We're always outdoing each other in scandals."

Now Florence knew why the girl's name had been familiar. Of course, Cora Marshall. Her name was always in the papers over one thing or another. The latest rumor was that she'd been seen out and about with a notorious figure of the city's criminal underbelly. And yes, Louise did hate her.

The fact left Florence silent in response.

Miss Marshall noticed. "Don't worry, that's between her and me only. I came over here because it's apparent that no one else will introduce themselves."

"Because I'm unknown to them? At least, that was how it was when I was..." Florence didn't want to say young and admit just how much older she was than Miss Marshall, especially when the girl brimmed with such poise. "When I was last at outings like this."

Miss Marshall assessed her with one brief glance. "Don't take it to heart. We're all snobs, you see, and hopelessly obsessed about who we're seen with. A 'who's worth my time' sort of thing. But now that I've sat with you, you'll be quite all right. Everyone will be dying to know what we talked about."

Then the show began, and Florence quickly grew enraptured by the line of women slinking their way down the runway and back as an announcer gave details about their outfits. Her eyes, starved for so long with the same sights day after day, year after year, teared up at the sheer beauty of the clothing. The sharp tailoring of a navy blazer was softened with a ruffled, lilac blouse. An evening gown looked like molten silver, tight as a second skin on its model.

"Now that is perfect," murmured Miss Marshall, as the woman passed them by. "Especially for someone with your height."

Strange, how a few crumbs of freedom had intensified her vague daydreams into ravenous desires. A few days ago, she would have been aghast at the idea of wearing such a revealing gown, and yet here she was, not only imagining herself in it but also aching for the chance at another evening out. To dance in that silver fabric beneath an equally brilliant full moon without any fear, a warm hand enfolding her own...

When the show finished, everyone rose to their feet. Florence hurriedly stood as well, gathering her clutch and the leaflet. Her eyes felt hot and tired, as though she had seen too much, but the nearest clock revealed she still had over three hours to go before her appointment at the bank.

"Most of us will continue into the hotel's restaurant for coffee," said Miss Marshall. "I'd invite you over to my table, but I'm meeting someone in particular, and we're due for a huge bust-up of a fight."

"I'm sorry," was all Florence could think to say, as they walked out of the room with the others. The significant glances and whispers sent her way were now much more curious.

"I'm not. Roy's always been full of himself, and now he's determined to run my life for me. Why, he set up a room at White Ivy Circle without even asking."

"White Ivy Circle?" repeated Florence, recognizing the name of where Tobias lived.

"Can you believe it? Everyone knows that place is good for only one sort of tenant."

"I'm afraid I don't know," said Florence, in all honesty, although she guessed from Miss Marshall's knowing tone that its reputation must not be good.

"Then I'm glad to explain so you can feel indignant right along with me. Those apartments are only for glad girls, gigolos, and mistresses who aren't even trying to hide what they are."

"Oh. Then everyone there is..."

"Absolutely. The place was quite genuine in the beginning, mind you, when it had first been built. Innocent intentions all around. But of course, it only took one sugar daddy to find it highbrow and amusing to put his bit of fun in a place called White Ivy Circle. Something to do with how the name could be taken as a reference to a god of pleasure. I don't recall which one. I was never any good at schooling."

Florence had already guessed the connection. The shock of Miss Marshall's words left her own voice quiet. "In reference to Dionysis, possibly. A hedonistic god known to wear an ivy crown."

"Yes, that was it. You're very well-read, aren't you?"

Before Florence could respond to the compliment, Miss Marshall continued on. "To think Roy had the gall to claim I should appreciate the gesture. That having a flat of my own was really him giving me some independence—never mind that every soul in this city would know exactly what I was doing to earn it."

"It's terrible." Florence didn't know what else to say without revealing the reason for her horror.

"Isn't it? And I thought he wanted to take our relationship seriously. Instead, he's like every other fella I've known, interested in sex and nothing else. If he tries to convince me to move in, I'm dumping my drink right on his head."

Then they reached the velvet curtains flanking the entrance into the restaurant. The bar stretched along the left side of the room, and several men were already there, smoking and reading newspapers in between sips from glasses filled with amber liquor.

Miss Marshall gave her a brilliant smile. "Well, enjoy your day."

"You as well," said Florence, pushing down a swell of uncertainty as she found herself alone.

Not for long, however. One of the other women who had been at the fashion show now approached—an elegant lady who wore a grey dress the same shade as her grey eyes. They seemed about the same age, and Florence felt a tinge of relief that there might be more in common for them to talk about.

"I noticed the indomitable Cora Marshall spoke to you earlier," said the woman, by way of introduction. Her hat band was decorated with feathers that managed to look sharp instead of fussy, emphasizing the tilt of her head when she added, "She's terribly nosy, the little thing."

After the girl's earlier kindness, Florence had no wish to speak ill of her. "I'd call her insightful. She realized I was Louise Wheeler's cousin immediately. I'm Miss Florence Wheeler."

"Yes, she adores being clever." The woman smoothed her furs before adding, "Mrs. Regina Steelhead. I know your family. I believe my father-in-law, Benjamin Steelhead, joined one of your father's trips in the hopes of scouting new locations for his logging industries. It's one of his fondest memories."

"I remember him. Is he well?"

"Oh, yes. He'll be delighted to hear that we ran into each other." The woman smiled readily, but Florence noticed that it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I always have coffee with a few other ladies after these sorts of shows. Will you join us?"

"I'd be delighted," replied Florence, aware that there was no polite way to decline. To be sure, she felt out of her depth, but the mention of Mr. Steelhead had reminded her of Mr. Julsrud, who had funded the expedition to the Ulflands. He was long dead, the poor man, but perhaps it was possible to meet someone who yet knew his widow and where she now lived.

Her brief conversation with Hilda hadn't been empty words. If her affliction was caused by strange magic unleashed at the dig, then she wanted to find out how and free herself of it. Tobias had seemed interested in the artifacts excavated from the ruins, and if—when—he came back, she wanted to have good information on where to find them in the city.

Just thinking about him made her heart throb terribly, but she forced herself to smile as Mrs. Steelhead led her to a table with several other women. If nothing else, a luncheon with strangers would be a good way to force her grief to scab over and to practice her composure. For now, at least, she had to forget him.