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hand. A drop of ink splatters onto the desk, narrowly missing the paper. My sore finger throbs against the pressure of my grasp.
    Edma fidgets and worries the lace collar of her yellow dress. “If we invite him today, Maman will be furious. It will not be fair to subject him to her mood.” She glances toward the door. “Another day. Tomorrow?”
    “Amélie?” Maman’s voice sounds in the hall just outside the drawing room. Edma and I jerk upright.
    The f lowers.
    I yank open the desk drawer and sweep the blossoms inside, nearly clipping my sister’s fingers as she drops Édouard’s card among the contraband.
    The scent of hyacinth lingers and the drawer still seems to vibrate its slam as Maman ambles into the room. We must look a guilty sight standing shoulder to shoulder behind the desk for no apparent reason.
    Maman scowls. “What are you doing?”
    At the same time Edma says, “Nothing,” and I started to explain, “We are studying the angle of the room to use for a charcoal drawing.”
    Unaccustomed to lying, I drop my gaze from hers. Two stray purple petals lay atop the desk. They must have fallen as I swept the f lowers out of sight. Bending forward, I cover the errant blossoms with my hand. I also hit the wet ink spot.
    Maman watches us for a moment, then shakes her head as if she has resigned herself to being unable to account for the

    strange ways of the younger generation. “Where is Amélie? That girl is treading a thin line today.”
    Amélie. Non. My heart thuds. Maman will have a fit if she finds her with the courier so long after she told her to send him on his way and with no note or f lowers. Given Maman’s mood, Amélie’s thin line would likely disappear altogether.
    “Amélie!” Maman heads toward the foyer.
    I squeeze my eyes shut and send a silent prayer that Amélie will think fast enough to formulate a plausible excuse for her loitering. I grab Edma’s arm, and we brace ourselves for Ma-man’s explosion.
    But there is none. Only the sound of her calling for the girl in an increasingly shrill and more distressed tone.
    “Amélie!”
    “Oui, Madame?” Amélie’s voice sounds from the kitchen, the opposite direction of the foyer.
    Smart girl—she had gone out the front door and reentered through the back.
    The ingenious girl had pulled it off, I would thank her later. I just hope she has told the courier to wait for the note.
    I dare not look at Edma until Maman is out of the room and well on her way to the kitchen. I notice I’ve transferred the ink stain from my hand to Edma’s sleeve. But there is no time to worry about it.
    Edma jerks open the drawer. I grab Édouard’s note—and the pen.
    Please come Tuesday at four o’clock.
    “Tuesday?” Edma protests. “ Non, that’s four days away. Tomorrow.”
    “Too soon. Maman will never receive him.”
    We hear our mother’s voice in the hall again. Then Amé-lie’s voice, louder than usual. “ Pardon, Madame, just one more question regarding luncheon, s’il vous plaît? ”

    Maman’s footsteps retreat.
    My heart is in my throat, but I manage to choke out, “Edma, hide the f lowers and distract her until I get back.”
    I hurry down the hall, taking care to tread lightly so the sound of my slippers do not give me away. Icy currents course through my veins. I hold my breath and pray Maman will not see me as I enter the foyer. Once safe in the entryway, I ease open the front door, then pull it to a soundless close behind me.
    As I step from the foyer into the windy brightness of the day, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. I hurry down the stone steps, across the walk and out the gate, where I nearly collide with a little boy who runs in front of me chasing his little dog down the street.
    As I right myself, my hand instinctively tries to secure my hat. But there is none. Nor gloves, I realize, as a handsome couple strides by arm in arm. I feel naked standing on the city street in my housedress, my head bare, the gusty