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same—yet different in a way that sent needles crawling down Minerva’s back.
    “My goodness.” The woman rolled out a cool little laugh. “Do I look old enough to be your mother? How unflattering.”
    “I didn’t mean—” Minerva broke off in confusion as the stranger’s voice riffled through her memories. Was that not her mother’s voice? “I beg your pardon, I meant no insult, but you bear an uncanny resemblance to my late mother.” She hesitated, then added, “And to myself too.”
    The woman drew closer, her silk skirts rustling like money. “Do tell me about your late mother,” she said in a honeyed tone.
    “She died while on a trip to the Continent when I was still a child. Influenza.” Minerva quivered at the memory. She’d been eight when without warning her mother had decided to winter on the Riviera. Seeing her mother tossing her clothes into a trunk, Minerva had begged to be taken along, vowing she would be on her best behavior. But as always her mother had been too busy to listen, had merely shaken her head and continued with her hurried packing. After she’d left, Minerva had waited in vain for a letter from her. Three months later came the news that she was dead.
    “How tragic,” the woman said. “And what became of you?”
    “My father took care of me. Silas Lambkin.” Minerva eyed the other woman closely, hoping the mention of her father would trigger some response, but the woman remained impassive. “There must be some explanation to this,” Minerva hurriedly added. “When my parents eloped, my mother was disowned by her family. Her name was Charlotte. I—I don’t know her family name, she never revealed that to me, but you must be a cousin of hers, surely?”
    “Must I?” The woman lifted her shoulders a fraction. “It’s been so long since I had contact with my family, I hardly remember all my many cousins, but perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I am a cousin of this Charlotte. Who knows?”
    At her detached tone, suspicion wormed in Minerva’s stomach. Any normal person would be curious about the possible link between them, but this woman was so indifferent Minerva couldn’t help wondering—was this woman in fact her supposedly dead mother? In the months leading up to her mother’s trip she remembered a coldness growing between her parents, accompanied by sharp, bitter exchanges, her mother disappearing for hours, sometimes all day. Could it be that her mother had left for the Continent with no intention of returning? That her father had lied to her about her mother’s death? That this elegant, sphinx-like woman was indeed her mother, a mother who had willingly and deliberately abandoned her?
    “May I ask your name?” Minerva whispered, her throat hoarse.
    “I am Mrs. Nemo.”
    “Is—is there a Mr. Nemo?”
    “Oh no.” Her laugh tinkled. “Mrs. Nemo is merely my nom de guerre, but you may call me Isolde.” She rose from the settee and glided over to a side table where she opened a cedar box, lifted out a slim, black cigarillo and proceeded to light it with cool aplomb.
    Minerva stared after her. Who was this woman who called herself Isolde Nemo and indulged in smoking like a bohemian? The smell of tobacco mingled with the heavy scent of tuberose already pervading the room.
    “And what do I call you?” Mrs. Nemo asked lazily.
    Call me daughter . Clenching her fist, Minerva replied, “Minerva Lambkin.”
    Smoke wreathed Mrs. Nemo’s head as she assessed Minerva from head to toe. “Well, Minerva Lambkin, I suppose there is a striking resemblance between us, despite your dress. We could almost be mistaken for sisters, don’t you think?”
    At first glance, perhaps. Mrs. Nemo’s face was unblemished, her hair like gold, her figure that of a twenty-year-old. But though she was still stunning, her beauty was cured and pickled, static even. There was something unnatural about the preservation of her looks, a disconnect between her youthful skin and her shrewd