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despair as the roses whispered to her,
“You are loved. You are loved.”
    “I’m not.”
    She fell against the ground and wept, her fingersdigging into the soil as if she would climb into the earth and hide in the darkness there forever.
    “You are loved,”
the roses insisted.
    Elise found her an hour later. Her skirts furled wide, she ran to Rose’s side and lifted her from the mud. She ran her fingers through Rose’s silvery-golden hair, plaiting it quickly.
    “Your . . . that
woman
wants you at the funeral feast,” the nurse said. She wiped Rose’s dirty cheeks and hands with her apron.
“Vite, ma belle
. She’s very angry.”
    She led her to the silvery stream, and Rose looked at her reflection. Her starry midnight-blue eyes stared back at her, puffy from weeping. Elise dipped the hem of her apron into the water and washed her face. Rose was beyond caring what she looked like and whether or not her new stepmother was angry with her.
    “That’s better,” Elise said, appraising her young lady. “Now . . .” She looked left and right, then put her finger to her lips. Then she lifted up her black skirts, revealing Rose’s birthday gown tied like a petticoat around her waist. It sparkled and glittered as she gathered up the skirts. “We can embroider a beautiful rose over the stain. It will be purple, like your favorite roses.”
    “Oh,” Rose cried softly. “Oh, Elise,
merci.”
She thought then of the cloak she had been stitching for her father, and she had laid it across him in his sarcophagus.
    “Not a word,” Elise warned her, smoothing down her skirt and pulling her dear young lady into her arms. “Tragedy will turn to triumph. Your dress will be even more lovely than before. And the tide of all this misfortune will turn as well. You’ll see.”
    Elise walked Rose into the great hall, where the feast had been set. There were two dozen guests milling in a hall meant to hold two hundred. Most of the servants were not present, although Rose knew it was the Marchand custom to share the feast with everyone on all the important days. A few moved among the guests, pouring mulled wine into Celestine’s golden goblets. The main table, which was yards long, was covered with her mother’s most precious white silk tablecloth, and set with what was left of her precious dishes. It was spectacular. Haunches of venison and pork steamed on gold platters; cinnamon, cardamom, and nutmeg thickened the air. There were bowls of potatoes and vegetables and towers of sugared fruits. Rose had no idea how Ombrine had managed to arrange such an elaborate feast on such short notice.
    “There she is,” Elise murmured.
    Ombrine had changed into another gown of black lace and black silk with a plunging neckline. Like an elegant spider, she held court in Celestine’s favorite ivory silk-covered chair, a full plate of untouched food at her elbow. She daubed her eyes as a gentleman leaned over her, offering her a goblet ofwine. The Widow Marchand wrapped her hand around the man’s and gave him a sad smile. His eyes glittered as he leaned closer. Then his gaze dropped toward her ample bosom.
    “She’s already after another one,” Elise said under her breath. She turned to Rose and cupped her cheek. “Well, dear one, we all do what we think we must. Try to find your way in this. I’ll stay close by.”
    Rose took a breath and looked at Ombrine, who was clearly very busy. Then she looked for Ombrine’s daughter.
    Framed by the diamond windowpanes, Desirée leaned against the dark wainscoting, inspecting one of the plates. She had changed as well, which may have explained when and how Elise had stolen back Rose’s birthday dress. Desirée’s ebony satin gown was threadbare and patched. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright and eager. When she saw Rose, she raised a lazy brow and hugged the plate possessively against her chest.
    “Sister,” she greeted Rose.
    Rose stiffened.
    “Go to her,” Elise whispered, giving