The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy (Montague Siblings #2)(41)

Sim manifested another dress from the modiste in Stuttgart, this one with a far more appropriate waistline for my square torso but made from a shiny black crepe that strongly suggests it was meant for a funeral. That, and its ready-made nature. Death is even more unpredictable than sitting in a cake at a party.

It’s not on the appointed theme of fish and fowl, but I could make a good argument for the entomological nature of my outfit, for I feel like a beetle in this skirt, the material made stiff and wide by panniers and thin ribbons dangling off the waist like antennae. “I think you tied it wrong,” I said at least five times to Sim while she helped me dress, and each time she replied, “I have not tied it wrong.”

I am still contemplating as I stand alone in my room, teetering before the mirror, trying not to be self-conscious about the fact that my hair is up off my neck and that I have several very large spots on my chin and also absolutely maddened by the fact that I care about these things when Dr. Platt is waiting for me downstairs. Your beauty is not a tax you are required to pay to take up space in this world, I remind myself, and my hand flits unconsciously to my pocket where my list is still tucked. You deserve to be here.

Someone knocks on my bedroom door, a frantic rap that’s certainly not Sim’s tap of warning before she lets herself in each time. “Felicity?” comes hissed over the knock. “Felicity, are you there?”

“Johanna?”

The door flies open, and she comes scampering into the room without invitation, Max bounding at her heels like they’re about to have a romp. She’s dressed for the party—white powder, perfect pink cheeks, and a heart-shaped mouche placed with surgical precision on her left cheek. Tiny pearls drip down her neck, spilling over the elegant slope of her shoulders and in between her breasts.

She slams the door behind her, Max perching himself at her feet with his tail thumping the floor hard enough to rattle the windowpanes. “I need your help,” she says, breathless, and I realize that the color in her cheeks isn’t from rouge.

“My help?” I’m still shocked she didn’t throw me out of her home after my scene at the party. “What do you need my help with?”

“I ruined my dress.” She turns around, trying to see her own back like a dog chasing its tail, and Max mimics with foamy delight. “Look.”

It’s a tent’s worth of material, and so adorned I can’t see anything amiss at first. I peer at her, trying to find the rip or tear or the big spot of drool from the dog.

“On the back,” she says, and I fight my way around the skirt as she keeps turning, and there it is—a small, but very noticeable against the blue, spot of blood.

“I didn’t realize I had started until I put the dress on,” Johanna moans. Max lets out a low yowl in solidarity.

It’s impossible to have an interest in medicine without picking up several methods for removing bloodstains along the way. It is also impossible to be a woman without that knowledge, though Johanna is limited by its location. “I think I can get this out,” I say.

“Can you really?”

“Stay here.” I dash into my dressing room and fish out a fingerful of talc from its silver casing, then mix it with a few drops of water from the washbasin before returning to her. I press the salve carefully into the stain, then fan it with my hand. “It has to dry,” I explain when she casts me a quizzical glance over her shoulder. And who can blame her? I’m currently waving at her backside while Max dances delightedly between us like this is some sort of fantastic game, his jowls swinging.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Johanna asks, her hands pressed to either side of her neck.

“Then I’ll throw a glass of wine at you to cover it up and you can tell everyone the stain was my fault. I had quite a lot of practice the other night.”

I thought I did a rather good job of making light of the incident, but Johanna doesn’t laugh. She puts her chin to her shoulder, eyes downcast. “You could have just told me you were miserable instead of destroying the dessert table.”

I stop flapping. “In my defense, I didn’t mean to do that. And also in my defense . . . I have no other defense. I’m sorry I ruined your party.”

“Oh, you hardly ruined it. One can still have a marvelous party without desserts. Though they certainly help.”

It is exceedingly odd to converse with someone while standing behind them, but facing Johanna, looking her in the eyes, still feels too daunting. Too easy to see the way she has settled into herself like an impression in the sand, while I have just grown stranger. I stare at the clasp of her necklace and the fine hairs that curl along the back of her neck. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Why? Because you’ve never been to a party?”

“No, I have.”

“I know.”

“I meant—”

“Caring about things like parties is beneath a woman like you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, not just now, no.” She turns. Makes me look at her. “But you did. Once.”

She’s speaking gently—not a thorn could grow from that spritely voice. But something about it makes me want to snap back at her. “And you said I was an ugly shrew and would die alone.”

She takes a step backward. “I didn’t.”