Chapter 7: The Gala

The courtyard room of the Boston Public Library held a hundred and forty donors and one grand piano.

Esme had worn the only good dress she owned, a midnight-blue one she'd bought for a cousin's wedding.

She'd added a pair of long satin gloves from a costume shop, since she couldn't be seen in leather.

The women at the front table had admired them.

"So elegant," one said. "Nobody wears gloves anymore."

"My hands get cold," Esme said.

Matthias sat at her right in his black tie, his knee jiggling under the cloth.

He had barely spoken to her since Wednesday.

He had been with Clarissa from six that morning until the car came.

What he said to Esme now was, "Don't mention the faint to the board."

"I won't mention it."

"She's frightened of looking weak."

"I know."

Across the table sat the chairman of St. Brendan's board, a silver-haired woman in pearls.

Beside her sat the donor who had given the new wing, with his wife, who talked about a cruise.

At a quarter past eight the lights dropped.

Clarissa came out alone.

She wore a column of red silk, with her hair swept up from her long white neck.

She carried the violin like something alive.

The room went quiet in a wave.

Esme had expected to hate the playing.

She had been ready for fake feeling, for tricks, for a woman performing a sickness at them.

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