“Is Mary your real name?” I blurt clumsily.

Her eyes narrow.

“I mean, is there another name you’d like me to call you? A Chinese name?”

Maybe I’ve overstepped my bounds. Maybe, where Mary comes from, a name is an important thing, like it is among the Maidu. A meaningful thing not blithely shared.

But her gaze softens, and she says, “When I was in China, my name was Chan Suk Yee, or Suk Yee Chan, in the backward way you do names here. But I’m not sure that girl even exists anymore.”

“Oh.” I think I know what she means. The Leah Westfall of Lumpkin County, Georgia, feels like another life, another girl.

“How did you get here? To California, I mean.”

“I walked across the ocean. On water, like your Jesus.”

It takes a split second to realize she’s funning me.

“On a ship, you dolt. In the hold, actually. I stowed away. But I was caught a week before we hit San Francisco.”

My eyes widen. “That sounds terrifying.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday.” She gives the ribbon at my back a finishing flick and shoves me out the door before I can ask any more questions. I vow silently to ask them soon, though. After what happened to Therese, I won’t waste an opportunity to have a friend.

I haven’t been this dressed up since Mama and Daddy’s funeral, except this time, I’m wearing a bright, happy color. It feels right, like I’m finally in my own skin. Which is not to say I’d wear this getup to bag a deer; Lee-in-trousers is an important part of me, too. But for tonight, I like the way I feel in a fancy dress.

We convene outside the boardinghouse before walking to the hotel together. Sure enough, Becky’s gown ripples like liquid gold in the light of the gas lamps. Jefferson eyes widen when he sees me. “Oh, Lee,” is all he says, but it makes my skin warm all over.

Jefferson stands tall in a new suit he bought at Mormon Island, and with his hair combed back and his fancy lace cuffs, he is as handsome as I’ve ever seen him.

“You look very nice,” I tell him.

He grins wider than the Mississippi. “You never give compliments,” he says.

“Only when they’re well deserved.”

Tom also wears a nice suit, a little less fine perhaps, but he looks every inch the college-educated lawyer.

Henry is the last to join us, and I gasp a little because he wears the finest black vest and trousers I’ve ever seen, set off by a bright blue silk cravat. His face is cleanly shaved, and his scant hair is covered by a shining black top hat. He beams with such delight that I say, “That’s a lovely color for you, Henry. Your eyes are as blue as I’ve ever seen them.”

Henry beams. “Truth is, I love to dance,” he says. “I never run out of partners, so long as I’m dressed like a duke.”

“You can take all of my partners,” I say.

“You have the invitation?” Tom asks me, but his eyes are on Henry so I wave it in front of his face. “Let’s go, then.”

Each of us carries a fair bit of gold—we decided it would be safer to divvy it up—so as we walk the single block toward the hotel, stepping carefully to avoid mud, I feel as though I’m surrounded by a miasma of light and buzzing warmth.

We arrive at the City Hotel—built brand-new just last summer—at precisely seven o’clock in the evening. Before we enter, I pause to take a deep breath.

“You can do this, Lee,” Jefferson whispers as others pass us, waving their invitations to be let inside.

“I can,” I say. “And I will.” I have one goal. Find the man who loaned my uncle so much money. James Henry Hardwick. He’s sure to be here. He might even find me first.

The doorman lets us pass, and we wander through a large carpeted lobby that smells of tangy pine boughs and the giant Christmas tree at its center, decorated in gold ribbons. Beyond it are double doors leading to the ballroom. There, another doorman asks our names. I tell him, and he turns to announce us.

My heart pounds as he booms, “From Glory, California. Miss Leah Westfall! Mr. Jefferson Kingfisher! Mr. Thomas Bigler! Mr. Henry Meek!”

I hold my head high and sweep inside as if I belong. The ballroom is packed, and all eyes turn toward me. Perhaps they’ve all heard of the Golden Goddess and her motley friends. I expect hostility toward us. Suspicion. Maybe even anger.

Instead, the gazes leveled at us are friendly and curious. Some are openly smiling. I force myself to smile back as we drift farther into the room.

Chandeliers bright with candles hang from the ceiling. Tables heaped with food line the walls. There’s even a sparkling glass punch bowl. In the far corner a small orchestra plays “Greensleeves.” I’m one of the few women in the room. I count three others, all much older, one of whom is a beautiful Mexican woman with gray streaks in her glossy black hair and a ruffled, multicolored skirt. She hangs on the arm of a man who wears a tight, high-waisted red vest with shining rows of brass buttons.

She gives me a smile and a wave, even though I’m a total stranger to her, and the gesture fills me with warmth.

Two men wear dresses. One sports an enormous beard and mustache. Both are already dancing with partners, and by all appearances having a grand time of it. It’s a sight I’d never see in Georgia, and it puts to mind what a strange and marvelous place California is.

“I should have worn a dress,” Henry says, his voice full of wonder.

Suddenly men are approaching me from all directions, congregating into an eager gaggle, but a stocky fellow with long brown sideburns reaches me first. “You look ravishing, Miss Westfall,” he says. “Are you . . . unattached?”

Well, he sure didn’t waste time getting to the point. “I am unmarried,” I say, before I can think better of it. I resist the urge to step back, a little closer to Jefferson and Tom and Henry.

He grins, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “I’m delighted to hear it. I’m Matthew Jannison, carpenter by trade. May I have this dance?” And he extends his hand to me.

I’ve never been much for dancing, much less with strangers, but it’s better than standing around growing increasingly nervous about meeting my uncle’s patron, so I place my hand in his sweaty one and allow him to lead me onto the floor. I feel Jefferson’s eyes on my back as we step away.

“Where are you from, Miss Westfall?” he asks as we fall into time with the orchestra. His hand remains acceptably high on my waist, and he maintains a proper distance between us, so I relax enough to tell him the truth.