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out for him. Said something about assassins.”
    She should never have accepted the wine!
    “Is he all right?”
    “Fine.”
    Julietta might have asked more questions, but the look on the girl’s face precluded any more inquiries. They worked in near silence for the rest of the afternoon, Julietta fearing that Annamaria’s promised illness might come at any time; Annamaria fearing that Luciana might faint once again; and Luciana fearing both that she had revealed too much and that Madame might deny her request for immediate pay.
    At six o’clock, Julietta and Annamaria put away their work, cleaned up their areas, and prepared to leave.
    “Are you coming?” Annamaria searched the girl’s eyes for any sign of hunger or illness. She saw only a strange sort of resignation. And . . . panic.
    “No.”
    “We’ll see you tomorrow?” The question was posed with the quiet optimism of hope. Annamaria had liked the girl, even though she hadn’t said very much and even though what she’d said were mostly lies. She’d heard several Genovese speaking once, and they hadn’t had the accent the new girl did.
    Luciana heard the pair walk down the stairs. Heard the exit of those other faceless, nameless girls on the second floor. And just when she figured that no one was left, she heard the sound of a person coming up the stairs. She felt a sudden pounding in her chest, and a draining of warmth from her face. She knew there was no reason for the terror that clutched at her. Knew there was no one more sinister than Madame Fortier in the shop. She tried to still her trembling hands by laying aside her work and tidying her space.
    Madame soon appeared in the doorway. “May I see what you’ve accomplished?”
    Luciana held out the collar.
    Madame took it into her hands. Ran a finger over the beads. Hardly a gap could be felt between them. And there was nary a pull in the material beneath. She turned the collar over, praying as she did so, that she wouldn’t be disappointed. She wasn’t. The stitching was as neat and precise as if she’d done it herself. She nodded. “Nicely done.”
    Luciana swallowed. Took in a breath for courage. “I need money, Signora.”
    “And you’ll have it. Work like this will be well paid.”
    “I need money now.”
    Madame raised a brow even as Luciana’s collapsed in upon themselves. It wasn’t going right. She’d meant to ask, not demand, but the problem was that she wasn’t used to doing either. The contessa’s granddaughter was used to having her needs met, even anticipated. And at first, in America, she’d had money to speak for her needs. But she had abandoned her title in this new country and now her money was gone.
    “Who are you? Exactly.” Madame put the collar down on the table and looked at her newest hire.
    “An immigrant.”
    “As are all my girls.”
    “I am Luciana Conti.”
    “Who is not from Abruzzo. Or Calabria. Or Sicily. Where are you from?”
    Luciana didn’t answer. “I’m an immigrant and just one among so many. Why should it matter who I am or where I’m from?”
    Everything matters. But because the girl was trying, so desperately, not to let it, Madame Fortier decided not to pursue the matter. “I will pay you for two days’ work, and I’m trusting that you’ll return to the shop tomorrow.”
    Two days’ work. It wouldn’t be much money, but it would be something. And at that point, something was everything.

    Luciana did return the next day, a Friday. And on Monday and Tuesday. By that time, her oddly elegant gown had lost its allure for both Julietta and Annamaria. And her satin pumps were showing holes in their soles. Meant for the gleaming floors of a Roman ballroom, they were entirely out of their element on the cobblestoned streets of Boston.
    That afternoon, Madame Fortier came up to the workshop, carrying a pile of gowns in her hands. She deposited them on the worktable in front of Luciana. “Some of these are mine, but most are discards