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pale aqua silk with the other, she turned her back on him.
    The movements of Monsieur Wallace made no difference to her in all truth, she thought as she continued up the stairs. She had no intention of being escorted anywhere by the man. She had made her plans, and nothing would stand in her way, particularly not a lout of an American, be he ever so daunting.
    The hard planes of his face as he watched her had revealed what could almost be termed a proprietary expression. It was most annoying. Where she went and what she did was none of his concern. Her father might have given her welfare into his keeping, but she had not accepted his guardianship.
    Brave thoughts, yet her nerves felt unstrung and a hollow dread lingered under her breastbone, as if she stood on the edge of a precipice. She could not recall when she had ever been so unsettled.
    The ball this evening seemed much like any other,with the string quartet playing on a dais, the perfume of roses scenting the air from their pedestal vases, gentlemen in somber evening garb and ladies in a pastel kaleidoscope of silk gowns. Dozens of such entertainments had been held during the saison des visites that was now winding down, some here, some at other hotel ballrooms here in the Vieux Carré and the American area uptown becoming known as the Garden District. A group of gentlemen each subscribed a set amount to hire the ballroom, have it decorated, provide refreshments and engage attendants to manage the carriage traffic and see to the comfort and security of attendees. The guests were chosen at their discretion, with close family members first on the list, followed by friends and their ladies then other members of their particular set. Such an invitation was seldom declined as all of New Orleans was mad for dancing, particularly the dizzying whirl of waltzes arriving weekly from the ballrooms of Paris and Vienna.
    One met, in the main, the same people at every ball, those who belonged to the haut ton. Sonia, glancing around, saw hardly anyone of close acquaintance. It was curious, but perhaps understandable. Mardi Gras and Lent had come and gone, and the palm fronds of Easter, blessed by the priest and tucked carefully behind mirrors and picture frames, had begun to shatter to the floor. A few cases of fever had been reported as the days grew warmer. Many had begun to pack for the return to country plantations, or else for travel to watering places such as Saratoga and White Sulphur Springs or thepleasures of Paris, Rome or Wiesbaden. Even her father was planning a business journey to Memphis.
    Yet no one came forward to greet Sonia and her aunt, no familiar faces appeared in the crowd. Most of the guests in her range of vision belonged to the far fringes of the French-Creole society. She recognized a noted divorcée seldom received in respectable households, a planter who had spent much of his youth in exile in Havana due to a taste for purple silk shirts and handsome young boys, and a dowager rumored to have buried her second husband an embarrassingly short time after the nuptials. Present, too, was the famous sword master and duelist Pépé Llulla, Spanish-dark, debonair and deadly, and his Italian counterpart, Gilbert Rosière. Wherever the pair walked, a clear lane appeared miraculously before them, closing behind them when they were well past.
    Hardly had the true situation begun to make itself known to her when Monsieur Wallace and his copper-skinned friend appeared in the ballroom entrance. They presented invitations, were relieved of their hats and sword canes and ambled forward as if they belonged.
    â€œTante Lily,” Sonia began, “I do believe…”
    â€œI know, chère. Not our usual circle at all. Exciting, is it not?” Her aunt’s eyes sparkled as she swept a fan of black lace back and forth with languid waves.
    â€œPapa will be livid.”
    â€œNow how can that be? You have your protector in attendance. If your papa