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daughter or the quiet artist who dallies in paint for amusement, willing to forgo it for matrimony. This Berthe secretly hopes word that Stevens’s prank has spread like syphilis through the brothels. With this Berthe, the very thought of forcing herself into a charade of convention makes her feel like a caged animal. She would rather die than be sentenced to such a dull life.

    I am afraid of this Berthe because I try to be good. I try to do what is expected of me, but more often than I care to admit, she lurks in the shadows of my heart threatening to consume me and the upright life I try so hard to live.
    “I am sure the courier will not wait all day, Amélie,” Maman snaps . “Tell him to take these back to the person who sent them, s’il vous plaît !”
    The maid hesitates, slanting a glance at Edma. What have I missed?
    Maman frowns and claps her hands. “ Tout de suite , Amélie. Now!”
    With a swoosh of skirts, the maid hurries out of the room.
    “But Maman , ” I protest.
    My mother gets to her feet and brushes past me without a glance. She is not gone half a minute when Edma grabs my hand and pulls me up and off the divan.
    “Come. Fast.”
    In the foyer, we nearly run into an ashen-looking Amélie, standing with the f lowers clutched to her breast, her back pressed against the wall as if she expects Maman instead of us. Her gaze darts around, then she thrust the note and f lowers at me. Amélie tries to back out of the room, but Edma grabs her wrist.
    “No, Amélie, stay.” My sister’s voice is barely a whisper, but it pins Amélie to the spot where she stands. “Ask the courier to wait while we write a reply.”
    My heart thuds. “Reply? What shall we say?”
    Edma throws her hands into the air. “We cannot send him back empty-handed. We must say something.”
    Amélie disappears through the front door to detain the messenger. Edma grabs the note from my hand and opens it, and we huddle together to read it.
    Dear Madam et Mesdemoiselles, I am mortified by last evening’s

    unfortunate turn of events. I wish to call on you this afternoon to convey my most sincere apology. Yours respectfully, Édouard Manet.
    Yes, regret.
    A humble request for forgiveness.
    I bury my face in the sweet-scented blossoms and inhale deeply until I feel my sister tugging at me again.
    “Come now. We must work fast.”
    We pause at the entrance to the drawing room for a cautious glance about the place. To our good fortune, there is no sign of Maman .
    Edma tosses the card on the desk and sets about foraging in
    the drawer for a pen.
    I lay down the f lowers and pick up the crème-colored linen card. I trace the top fold with my nail, teasing my way down the side until almost as if by its own will my finger slips inside the note and rests between Édouard’s words. I do not open the card. Still, I can see the ghost of his script through the paper and somehow that is enough. I run the tip of my f inger on the underside, along his writing, caressing each word. Instinctively, my f inger pushes against the upper fold. At that moment everything crystallizes. If I push the tiniest bit, I will be inside.
    Or I could simply lay down the note and walk away. “Here, give that to me.” Edma snatches the paper from my
    hand. The crisp edge slices my finger, leaving a clean, white gash.
    I gasp and press the stinging f lesh to my lips. The moisture only intensifies the discomfort.
    Oblivious, Edma lay Édouard’s note facedown on the desk. She dips the pen into the inkpot and glances up at me expectantly. “What shall we say?”
    I bite down on the wound instead of answering her. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

    I shrug and wipe my wet finger on my blue skirt.
    She frowns. “Here, you write.” Edma thrusts the pen at me. “This is for your benefit not mine. It should come from you.”
    The reality behind her words startles me, as if someone has lit a candle in a pitch-black champagne cave.
    I take the pen in