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appearance fail us—­which it inevitably does.
    And while the natural-­born male might have a decidedly less labor-­intensive toilette, I would caution any of this paper’s female readers from attempting to exchange their gender for another, for their activity is nearly as tedious and uncomfortable as our own feminine preparations.
    â€œNow lift the curtain and look,” Madame Hortense announced.
    Eleanor opened her eyes and gasped. So did Maggie.
    â€œThat can’t be me,” Eleanor said, yet her voice came out of the face reflected back at her. She reached up to touch her face.
    Madame Hortense swatted her hand away. “Don’t undo all my hard work!”
    The transformation was startling. All from the application of a bit of paint and false hair. Rather than a woman of thirty-­two, a young man in his early twenties stared at her in the glass. Through artful shading, her nose looked broader, her jaw and chin more square. Madame Hortense had given her fashionable side-­whiskers that matched the color of her wig. Eleanor even sported a shading on her top lip that suggested a morning shave starting to lose its battle as a mustache started to grow in.
    â€œMy God, Eleanor,” Maggie breathed. “You’re a damn pretty boy, but a boy just the same. I’ll have to keep most of the women at the theater—­and some of the men—­away from you.”
    Eleanor turned her face from side to side. So this is what she would have looked like if her father had gotten his wish and she’d been born male. Too bad the poor sot was deep beneath the earth now, or else she’d show him what he’d missed out on.
    What would Lord Ashford say when he saw her? Or would he even recognize her? The idea that he might actually mistake her for a man was a delicious anticipation. She’d love to catch him off guard, knock a little of his polish off.
    The door to the dressing room banged open and Mr. Swindon bustled in, his arms full of clothing. The moment he saw Eleanor, he let out a little shriek and nearly dropped the garments.
    â€œOh, but this is marvelous!” He hustled forward, his eyes never leaving her. “Just exquisite. Well done, Miss Hawke. And hosannas to you, madame,” he added when Madame Hortense cleared her throat loudly. “Forsooth, we have a genuine artist dwelling beneath the roof of this humble theater.”
    â€œHe means himself,” Maggie whispered, leaning close, and Eleanor had to stifle her laugh.
    â€œNow for the second part of your metamorphosis.” The costumer held out his arms, covered with clothes.
    â€œI’ll need some guidance,” Eleanor said. She’d undressed men before, and watched them don their garments, but the process of getting dressed in masculine attire eluded her.
    So Mr. Swindon helped her step into a man’s combination. He strapped pads on her calves to help bulk up those muscles, then gave her a pair of white stockings that climbed up past her knees. She stepped into a pair of buff-­colored knee breeches. This was followed by a long-­tailed linen shirt and a cream-­on-­white embroidered waistcoat. Mr. Swindon hid her lack of Adam’s apple with a very tall collar and neckcloth, which threatened to cut off Eleanor’s supply of air.
    After she stepped into a pair of sleek low men’s pumps, Eleanor let the costumer help her into a dark blue coat. Its shoulders were heavily padded, the width of the skirts a little wider to conceal her hips. She was given a pocket watch and a pair of gloves, along with a top hat perfect for an evening out.
    â€œAnd voilà, ” Mr. Swindon said, his French accent far more convincing than Madame Hortense’s.
    Again, Eleanor looked into the mirror. She stood, agog, at her change. She’d entered the Imperial Theater as a woman, but now she was a young man of means and fashion. For several moments, all she could do was stare