My hand, encased in an elbow-length gray kid glove, rests daintily on John’s outstretched arm. He smiles as he hands me down—or perhaps he’s laughing at me behind his whiskers. I’m none too steady in my new heeled boots, picked up yesterday from the cobbler’s.

Maura sails ahead of me, hips swaying in her voluminous cornflower-blue dress. She’s all graceful curves and poise. She looks beautiful: chin held high and confident, cheeks flushed with excitement. Her dress has black lace trim and a matching black buckled belt, unlike my peacock-blue monstrosity of a cummerbund.

The Ishidas’ maid directs us into the sitting room. A dozen ladies are sipping tea from china cups painted with pink cherry blossoms—a nod to the Ishidas’ Japanese heritage. When the Daughters of Persephone established the colonies, they abolished slavery and promised religious freedom. Witches from all over the world flocked to New England. Two centuries later, there are faces of every color on the street, and a dozen families of Japanese origin in town. There was some ugliness during the war with Indo-China, but that was twenty years ago: now the Ishidas are one of the most respected families in Chatham. Still, Mrs. Ishida is always careful to stress that their ancestry can be traced back toJapan,lest the neighbors confuse one Oriental face with another.

“Miss Cahill, Miss Maura, good afternoon! Don’t you both look lovely?” Mrs. Ishida coos.

I force a smile and make an appropriately insipid response. The room is already full of the Brothers’ wives and daughters. Mrs. Ishida directs us through the pocket doors to the dining room, where Sachi and Rory are pouring tea and chocolate at a long table laden with dahlias.

“Miss Cahill, Miss Maura, we’re so glad you could come,” Sachi says. Her delicate doll’s face is dominated by striking, almond-shaped eyes set off by thick black lashes. “Miss Cahill, that’s such a lovely shade of purple! Why, your eyes look almost violet in this light!”

“Thank you,” I murmur. “It was very kind of your mother to invite us.”

Rory tosses Sachi an arch look across the table, and Sachi laughs. “Oh, that was my doing; Mama would never think of it. I just saw you at church the other day and thought, why, it’s silly we don’t know each other better. We’re all of the same age, and you don’t live so very far away, and my father thinks very highly of yours. We ought to be friends. Are those new dresses you’re wearing?”

“Our governess convinced Papa we needed a new wardrobe,” Maura says. I raise my eyebrows. We haven’t called him Papa since we were very young.

“Lucky ducks.” Sachi pouts. “My papa says I have far too many dresses as it is and lectures me about greed when I ask for more.”

“Your dress is magnificent,” Maura gushes. It’s garish, actually—an orange taffeta with tiny pink polka dots, and Sachi’s got a ridiculous pink feather tucked in her hair. But she’s so beautiful that she manages to make it look tasteful rather than ostentatious.

“Milk or sugar?” Rory asks. She has the same dark, lustrous hair as Sachi, but otherwise they couldn’t be more different. Where Sachi is tiny and petite, Rory is tall, with an ample hourglass figure that she takes pains to show off. Today she’s dressed in a red satin frock with a heart-shaped neckline that’s far too low cut for a day dress.

“No, thank you, I take my tea plain.”

Sachi hands Maura a cup of hot chocolate. “You’ve got a new governess, haven’t you? Is she very dreadful? Mine’s always yammering on about French. As though I’ll ever go to France! I’ll be lucky to get a wedding trip to the seashore.”

“Should we be expecting news of your betrothal?” Maura asks, choosing a gingersnap from the plate on the table.

“Oh, not for a few months yet, I expect,” Sachi says airily. “I’m going to marry my cousin Renjiro, you know. Father’s been planning it since I was a little girl. His family lives in Guilford. We’re going to visit in November, on the way to Papa’s National Council meeting in New London. I imagine Renjiro will propose then.”

Maura gives me a sly look. “If my sister plays her cards right, she’ll be living in New London soon.”

I shoot her a murderous glare, but it’s too late. “Is that so?” Rory drawls.

“Have you had a proposal? I saw Mr. McLeod escorted you home from services on Sunday,” Sachi says.

“We were only getting reacquainted. We were fast friends as children.” I turn away, trying to discourage the conversation, inhaling the spicy scent of the pink dahlias. They’re just the color of the polka dots on Sachi’s dress. I wonder if she did that on purpose.

“Well, you’re not children anymore. Mr. McLeod’s gotten awfully handsome. Yum,” Rory says, popping a whole gingersnap into her mouth. She’s got an overbite that gives her the slightest rabbity look.

Sachi laughs and swats at her. “You needn’t be coy, Miss Cahill, you can tell us. We’re really not the blabbermouths everyone thinks.”

“Cate’s being modest. He came back from New London especially to court her,” Maura brags. “He’s mad about her. I expect he’ll propose any day now.”

Sachi looks at me, her dark eyes impenetrable. “Will you say yes?”

I’m saved by the arrival of Cristina Winfield. She saunters in, kissing Rory on the cheek in greeting, and then they’re busy inquiring abouther newly announced betrothal.

“Did Matthew kiss you when you said yes?” Rory asks.

Maura and I drift out of the way, choosing little cakes to accompany our tea.

“Don’t think you’ll get off so easily, Miss Cahill; we’re not finished with you yet!” Sachi warns me.

I wander into the sitting room. Why did Sachi invite us, and why is she suddenly so curious about my prospects? We’ve barely spoken a dozen words to each other our whole lives. She and Rory are inseparable, the kind of close that doesn’t allow room for anyone else, and she has all the other girls in town vying to be her friend—proper town girls who don’t need a governess to tell them how to dress and how to behave.

Maura takes a chair next to Rose and is drawn into an animated discussion about Mrs. Kosmoski’s newest shipment of silks. I’m left to perch on the green-and-gold-striped sofa between Mrs. Ishida and Mrs. Malcolm. The latter has dark circles under her eyes, but she’s full of cheery talk about her new son. Mrs. Ralston, another of the young wives, boasts about her latest goddaughter.

The word strikes a chord with me. I had a godmother once, and I’m in a room with the biggest gossips in town.

I put a hand to my temple, a brave smile on my lips. I’m the picture of one of the swooning, consumptive heroines in Maura’s novels.

“I wishIhad a godmother,” I sigh. The sadness in my voice isn’t entirely feigned. “It would be such a help, now that Maura and I are older. With Mother gone . . .”

Mrs. Ishida’s feathery eyebrows fly up to perch on her hairline. “But you do. Or—well. You did.”

“I did? I don’t remember her.” I scan the room, puzzled, as if expecting her to pop out from behind the gold damask curtains.

Mrs. Winfield’s ash-blond hair is pulled back so tightly, it gives her a pinched look—unless that’s just the natural shape of her face. “I believe she moved away,” she says. “When you were still very young.”