Chapter 5: The Gala

By Saturday night, Astrid knew exactly who had read her prison file.

She had pushed it under the mattress and said nothing at breakfast, and Celia had smiled at her over the toast.

"It was her," Duncan said in her earpiece. "Who else lives there and enjoys it?"

"Her father had it first."

"Her father cried at you."

"So did she."

"Keep your back to a wall tonight," Duncan said. "I'll be at the bar."

The dress Everard had promised arrived at six.

It was a pale pink thing with a crooked hem, three sizes too wide in the shoulders, and it smelled of someone else's closet.

The label inside had been cut out.

Astrid looked at it for a moment and put it on.

She had walked into rooms in worse.

The ballroom of the Swinton house held three hundred people under a ceiling of chandeliers.

Waiters carried champagne between men in black ties and women in silk.

Marguerite met her at the foot of the stairs, and her face fell.

"That isn't the dress I picked," she said. "Astrid, I'm so sorry."

"It's fine."

"It is not fine." Marguerite took her arm. "Come with me. We'll find you something."

"There isn't time, Mother."

The word came out before she meant it.

Marguerite's hand tightened on her arm, and neither of them said anything else.

Across the room, Celia stood in a gold gown with a ring of laughing women around her.

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