William had sent his carriage to bring Flora to the Seagrave home, where Jane would help her dress for the ball later that day. Going through with it felt impossible in the desperate state she was in. She examined her face in the mirror, arranging her hair, but paying no attention to what she did. Siran had already arranged and rearranged her hair, and she couldn't improve on it, but the meaningless activity felt soothing. By this evening, they would publicly announce her engagement to William.

After Hamid had left, she'd climbed the stairs to her apartment, and immediately taken to bed. She'd dreamt of him. They made love, their breaths and movements intertwined into a single body of energy, glistening and unrestrained. Black tears rolled down her cheeks, like ink, blurring her vision so she could scarcely see. The ink then transformed into slippery dark corridors, a labyrinth from which she was desperately trying to escape. She ran, stumbled, fell, ran again, chased by an echoing screech from a voice she vaguely recognised as her own: "whoring bitch."

She'd woken with a start, shaking and covered with a fine sheen of sweat.

When she couldn't go back to sleep, she'd got up and walked around, listening to the 'muezzin' call to morning prayers, to the church bells ring, and through the window she stared at the sun rising. Under the rooftops, the pigeons spread their tails and cleaned their feathers. The newspaper boys appeared in the street, the shop owners opened their doors, the cab drivers rumbled past, and the children walked by the hand of their mothers on their way to school.

None of it made sense to her. Her own body felt alien and terrifying. A fever burnt her up inside, as if she'd burn right through the chair if she sat on it. It felt like the devil lived inside her, howling with laughter, and spouting out: You took the money and thought you could save yourself here.

It was true, she thought as she dressed, she had taken the money and fled Paris.

"It's enough for a new beginning," the mistress of the orphanage had said when she handed Flora the envelope. An anonymous donor, though they'd both known who he was. "It's more than most women of your kind get, it's more than you deserve. Leave, get a fresh start."

The mistress had been wrong, though. For a fallen woman like Flora, there could be no such thing as a fresh start. Her body could not be trusted. It felt like madness possessed her, dreams haunted her, and her body was burning up with desire.

On her way to William's, she asked the coachman to stop at the church. There she kneeled before the priest, begging him to save her. Words poured out of her, incoherent and confusing, mixing everything together: the lover who abandoned her in Paris, the money she took, her fraudulent engagement with William, and the adventure with Hamid. Here she hesitated, unsure of what to call the turmoil inside. Impurity, she felt, was probably the word which summed it all up.

"Please help me," she murmured.

The priest, Mr Fowler, was skinny and ugly, with sweaty hands that sought to clasp hers too tightly, for too long. "What impurity? In the flesh?"

She and Hamid had touched, but nothing more had happened, certainly not in the flesh. It could have happened, perhaps it actually had. How else could it feel so real in her dreams? Why else did she feel such guilt?

The priest leaned in so close she could hear him breathe.

"Woman is the devil's gateway. You must resist, resolve not to think of this man in the future, nor dream of him."

Her emotions were troubled, strange, warm, and intoxicating. They frightened her. She was confused and ashamed, she was out of control. How could she not think of Hamid again?

She saw herself racing down Rue de Pera, throwing off her clothes until she was stark naked, hair flying and breasts bouncing. Laughing hysterically like a mad-woman, straight into the faces of William, Jane, and all the rest of her fancy clients. After that, she would have to hide in a cave like a hermit. Or catch the next ship to the end of the world. Shunned by everyone. Cast out. It all seemed very plausible.

"Sacramental reconciliation is required for mortal sins. Pray for guidance in your search for answers. Ask Him to lead you. Mr Seagrave will support you and make sure you are strong and determined."

What else had she hoped for? Mr Fowler was not her friend, he was a priest, the head of his flock and acting under the authority of Christ to reconcile sinners to God; she was a lost sheep, brimming with sin. She left the church filled with the same anguish that had brought her there, and more convinced than ever that marrying William was her only hope to save herself.

Moments later, Jane welcomed her into the Seagrave drawing room. William would be back from the office in time for the photography session, she said.

"Gives us time to get to know each other better," Jane quipped and took Flora under the arm. "Let me show you around the house."

Flora had begged Hélène to come to the dressing to support her, but she was late, or – God forbid – had changed her mind last minute without deigning to let her know. Don't abandon me now, Flora silently prayed.

As they wandered through the opulently decorated rooms, she was reassured by Jane's incessant chatter, her conversation littered with names of artists and architects Flora had never heard of. She listened in the same way she did to her clients, on the outside listening in. Invisible. It relaxed her, and felt like Jane had come to terms with her brother's decision to marry her. Possibly even accepted her, despite her lowly social status.

The Seagrave home was indeed superb, complete with library, billiard room, ladies' boudoir, drawing room, a spiralling staircase glittering with gold, and a labyrinth of servants' quarters. Dark, rich colors and bold prints of flowers and foliage decorated the rooms. There was overstuffed furniture, marbled chimneys, and countless paintings, landscapes mostly, as well as a few portraits of people whose names Jane had forgotten.

"It will be the most extraordinary engagement party! William handles business, but trusts me with everything social," Jane said. "I'm good at getting things done the way he wants. And now he wants the most glorious ball in the history of Pera."

"Of course," Flora said. William's want was her want too. Roll over and play dead. Like the toads on the riverbank back home in Hainaut, that went belly-up when the children toyed with them. She could do that.

Over five-hundred people would attend the spring ball. Those invited had dresses and suits manufactured, gifts purchased and delivered to the host. Those not invited pretended they were, or begged Jane to be included on the guest list. The frenetic preparations had intensified when Jane announced there would be a surprise. Everyone speculated what it might be. There'd been rumours of William's engagement, but no clue as to whom it was with.

A wave of trepidation rose through Flora's body to her face, and it must have shown because Jane put a hand over hers. "Don't worry, I have taken care of everything."

She sighed, and lowered her voice even though they were alone, and in a sugar-sweet tone continued, "Though, it's only fair to tell you, my friend says you remind her of a saleswoman in a glove store in Paris, involved in some sort of scandal. I'm sure she's mistaken and have said nothing to William, but I have asked her to make enquiries, and to confirm your ties to the Marquis de Cordier family. As a precaution, you understand. In romance, William can be so gullible, but I am not easily deceived."

How could a threat be delivered so amiably?

Flora smiled tensely and nodded, but her heart sank and the blood drained from her face; she was at a loss for words. How foolish to think Jane was starting to accept her.

After an hour, once Hélène had arrived and settled on the sofa, exhausted after the ten-minute carriage ride from her home, Flora emerged from behind a screen, wearing a green sleeveless dress. To match, she also had on pearl-coloured silk gloves that reached up her arms, and jewellery which William had bought for his bride-to-be.

Hélène clapped her hands, and Jane smiled sweetly, examining Flora with interest. The seamstress, who looked drained, had worked on the last-minute changes. Flora complained the dress was too tight, she couldn't move in it, the colour wasn't right for her and the fabric was too thick. Finally, she asked the seamstress, who was close to tears, to get the dress off her.

"It's just nerves, darling," Jane said. "What we need is a drop of sherry." She disappeared.

"What are you doing," Hélène said. "Why are you ruining everything? It won't serve you well to make an enemy of Jane."

"She already hates me."

"So why make it worse?"

"This marriage, it's wrong. I should call it off."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"The spring ball could go ahead without the engagement, and no one would know."

"How can you consider something so silly?"

"Jane's friend knows me from a glove store in Paris."

Hélène looked at her for a moment, puzzled. "So, you bought your gloves in the same store."

"Not as a customer. I worked as a saleswoman there."

"Well," Hélène said thoughtfully, "where's the crime in that?"

Flora bit her lip. She considered telling Hélène all of it, but couldn't bring herself to do it. "She has made enquiries, Hélène, to confirm my relations to the Marquis. The truth will come out."

"What truth?"

"I am not related to the Marquis de Cordier family, you know very well I'm not!"

Hélène waved her hand as if brushing off an irritating fly. Usually, Flora found her cool indifference refreshing, now it made her blood boil. She wasn't able to put her feelings into words, things she didn't even say to herself – the way her body betrayed her, the inconsistencies, her cowardice. So, the words came out wrong, accusative and spiteful. "It's just a joke to you, isn't it?"

Hélène's eyebrows arched higher.

"This is all your fault."

"My fault?"

"If it hadn't been for your reckless game of spreading false rumours about me, I wouldn't be in this situation. I would have my shop and be content. Now I'll lose everything, just to keep you entertained."

She broke down into tears. Hélène's icy silence and the sound of Jane's approaching steps made her pull herself together. "Please forgive me Hélène," she snivelled. "I didn't mean any of it. You've always been so good. What is happening to me?"

"Here's the sherry," Jane quipped. While pouring, her inquisitive eyes wandered from Flora to Hélène.

"I'll put the dress back on," Flora mumbled, and sought refuge behind the screen. Her hands trembled. "Forgive me," she whispered to the seamstress.

The fitting continued without further incident because she didn't say another word. She left all decisions to Jane and Hélène, who seemed to agree on everything as if they were best friends. After a while, Hélène said she needed to rest before the evening. She kissed Flora on each cheek and left.

Flora steadied herself with a hand on a shelf because her legs were wobbly. She focused her mind on the needle, which the seamstress pushed back and forth through the hem of the dress. The heart inside her pinched chest was cold and hard as a rock.

After lunch, William returned and the photographs were taken in the rose garden. Jane had invited a famous Armenian photographer and decided on the composition: Flora, seated on a white garden chair, and William standing beside her with a heavy hand resting on her shoulder. He had put a carnation in his buttonhole.

"Classical and dignified," Jane said, "and the pictures will definitely appear in the newspaper, in London and possibly even in Paris: Mlle de Cordier, a relation of Marquis de Cordier, marries William Seagrave in Constantinople."

Flora shuddered.

The photographer then took a group portrait, with William and Jane standing on either side of Flora, who remained seated. Flora suggested that they could all stand, but Jane was adamant that the bride should sit.

They captured more pictures of the garden too. It had been prepared to receive the guests at the modish dinner, with free seating at small, round tables dressed in white damask, silver and crystal. It was to be a grand occasion, just as Jane had promised.

_____________________

Author's note

Why did I make the photographer in this chapter Armenian? Well, it's because in the 1860s, the Abdullah Frères studio, founded by Armenian brothers Vichen, Hovsep, and Kevork Abdullah, rose to prominence in Constantinople. Their exceptional skill in photography caught the attention of the Ottoman Sultan Abdülaziz, who invited them to his hunting lodge in Izmit to take his portrait in 1863. The resulting photograph so impressed the Sultan that he declared it his official likeness, to be distributed throughout the empire.

In recognition of their talent, Abdülaziz bestowed upon the brothers the prestigious title of "Artists to His Imperial Majesty." This imperial endorsement made the Abdullah Frères' the preeminent photographers in the Ottoman Empire, and their studio became the go-to destination for portraits of the Ottoman elite, foreign dignitaries, and wealthy citizens.

The brothers' success not only elevated the art of photography in the empire but also served as a testament to the significant contributions of Armenian artists and entrepreneurs to Ottoman cultural life in the 19th century.

I imagine that Peresto might have looked a bit like the beautiful anonymous woman in the embedded photograph, taken by the Abdullah Frères studio in 1875.