Cora hurtles down the narrow steps.
“Enjoy the party, Cora,” Béatrice calls gently after her.
Cora ducks into the corner of the narrow, stuffy stairwell, attempting to catch her breath, calm her juddering pulse. Alice could not have possibly meant those cutting gibes. No, she is overwhelmed, obviously, ever more anxious as they hurtle toward this grand production’s final act on May 1.
Just breathe, Cora tells herself.Breathe, reset the stage.
She carefully wipes her eyes, attempting to preserve Béa’s handiwork. This is hardly the time for self-pity. And this is what she wanted, after all: to be part of a winning team, to star in a lucrative performance, with instruction from a master (however cold or ruthless that master might be). Alice will fill in Cora, eventually, of course she will, when the time is right. Alice needs her, after all.
Cora only wishes Alice were better at showing it.
She takes a few fortifying breaths and steps into the respite of the night, taking in the picturesque New York winter evening in all its splendor. The warmly lit lanterns, the horse-drawn carriages clopping down the road, the frigid air laced with perfume and expectation. As for her escort, the carriage is already parked at the curb.
Alice was right, per usual: The Witts’ cab is indeed lifted straight from a fairy tale, ornate white wood, gilded frame, and hitched to four majestic gray steeds. A reedy, well-dressed driver stands ready to assist.
Get into character now, Cora. Calm, regal, earnest, doting.
She lifts the beaded skirts of her Egyptian princess costume, her heaviest and most exquisite gown yet this season—though calling it “hers” is a stretch, as it will be sold on, same as all the rest of them, soon after the party. She blinks the less-than-glamorous reality away and glides down from the front stoop just as Harry steps out from the carriage.
Harry bows, offering his hand. Thankfully, his attire tonight is loads better than the hasty, misconceived getup he threw together for the Patriarch’s Ball. He’s dressed as a Scottish Highlander, with a sharp cap, full cape, and gentleman’s kilt. Will wonders never cease; he must have finally hired a tailor.
“Miss Ritter,” Harry says. “You’re as exquisite as aNymphaea caerulea.”
Cora cocks her head.
“An Egyptian lotus,” Harry hastens to explain. “You know, given the, ah, costume.”
He gestures manically toward her Cleopatra dress.
Goodness, he seems more off than usual.
She affords him an indulgent smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Peyton,” she says with perfect Württembergian inflection. “You look very dashing yourself.”
They settle into the crowded carriage, onto one of the car’s long velvet benches. Seated across are the Witt twins, Bonnie and Beau, dressed as a fairy and a silken-clad jester, respectively, with their dreadful mother, Mrs. Witt, sandwiched between and overlapping them. The older woman is puffed up like merengue in frills and lace, with some kind of taxidermied bird both posing as a hat and wearing a hat of its own.
“Mother Goose,” Mrs. Witt explains proudly, as she likely will all night.
Cora smiles. “How clever, Mrs. Witt.”
As Alice explained earlier this week, it would be untoward for Cora and Harry to attend the ball on their own. Given Alice and Mr. McAllister considered it more strategic to ride with the Ogdens tonight—one thread of their exclusive debates that shewasable to parse—Cora has been tasked with suffering the Witts.
“My, my, how beautiful you look, Miss Ritter.” Mrs. Witt smirks. “The detail in that gown is astonishing. Everyone will wonder how many emeralds you had to sell to pay for such a costume. I’m surprised your cousin is allowing any expense to be allocated anywhere but back home to the resistance effort.”
Mrs. Witt’s shrewd eyes flash dangerously. Was that a knowing cut? Was this costume a misstep? Does she see through their resistance ruse, or is she just being vicious?
Here and now, Cora decides that out of all the marks, she dislikes Mrs. Witt the most.
With an airy laugh, Mrs. Witt leans across the cab and pats Cora’s knee. “Quite right to bring your best tonight.Of all nights.”
She flashes Harry a little smirk.
Harry starts nervously laughing, which quickly devolves into a choking cough.
“Goodness, Harry, are you all right?” Cora places her hand on his shoulder.
“Quite,” he heaves, flashing her a demented smile. “I’m in a fit about this ball. I’m sure it will be one for the ages!”
