choose from.”
Charlotte contorts her face, looking over at Emma desperately. “I’m sure they’re nice, but Sophia …”
I rub the pendant on my necklace between my thumb and index finger. It’s a faceted white onyx stone; years of rubbing it between my fingers have buffed the edges smooth. “Do you guys want to come over and see if anything works?”
Emma snaps her book shut. In unison, they proclaim, “YES!”
A timid knock announces their arrival. Although I hear Charlotte and Emma introducing themselves politely to my mother, I am occupied upstairs, extricating myself from a bundled mass of silk, velvet, tulle, and plastic wrapping.
When I reach the landing, Emma and Charlotte are huddled together in the foyer, observing the rest of the house. My mother beams effervescently at them.
“Hi,” I call down, “the dresses are up here.”
With polite nods to my mother—did Emma just curtsy?—they ascend the staircase, and I lead them into my room.
“Oh—”
“My—”
“Gosh—”
“I know, there’s a lot to sift through,” I apologize, “but we should be able to find something—”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Charlotte shrieks. She pulls an eau de Nil dress out of a bag and examines the sinamay fascinator clipped to it. “Peacock feathers?” she screeches.
“I’m definitely not wearing feathers.” I point to a heap of dresses in the corner. “Or fur.”
Charlotte whirls her head around like it isn’t connected to her body.
Emma seems to be in a trance. “These aren’t dresses, Sophia,” she says in awe, “these are gowns.”
“Gowns,” echoes Charlotte.
“Why do you have so many?” Emma admires a soft champagne-pink gown with a twisted neckline.
“When we had a ball or a gala or some diplomatic function my mother would order us gowns from Paris—”
“Paris!?” Charlotte yelps.
Glittering lights … Fluted champagne glasses … Violin music …
“Once,” I say, holding up a sequined sapphire gown, “the UN rented out a wing of Versailles for their annual gala, so my mother ordered these. We went to L’Atelier Blanc de Frédéric Mennetrier in the 2nd arrondissement to have our hair done …”
I don’t include that although I was only twelve, my mother instructed me to say I was sixteen and attending St. Anton Boarding School in Austria. It didn’t occur to me then how much harder it should have been to lie.
“… After the gala, she shipped them to our storage unit in Maryland. I never saw any of them again.” I spread my arms out. “Until now.”
Charlotte lifts an aquamarine silk gown from the footboard. “You would never find this for prom here. They don’t even sell stuff like this in Waterford.”
“Why don’t you guys try them on?” I suggest.
“No, we have to see how they fit you.”
“They’re bespoke, Emma. They all fit me. You try them on. You can wear your favorite to prom in the spring,”
Charlotte looks astonished. “But, Sophia, they must have cost a fortune.”
“Seriously. Please? It will be way more entertaining watching you”—I hold up a taffeta blush gown with white feathers sewn across the bodice and a faux swan perched on the shoulder—“wear this.”
“I don’t need convincing.” Squealing, Charlotte pulls out her phone from her back pocket, a speaker from her purse, and turns on blaring music.
Charlotte insists on trying on every dress accompanied by coordinating headwear: diamanté bands, fur hats, feathered fascinators, even a hat with a tiny teacup in the center I wore to a garden wedding in Surrey when I was thirteen.
“Which one are you going to wear?” Emma shouts above the music; she is zipping into an oxblood crepe de chine silk gown. “You haven’t even changed.”
“That one.” I point to a muddy-brown gown lying in a heap in the corner.
Emma scrunches her face in the mirror. “Is burgundy my color?”
“Certainly!” My mother is standing in the doorway holding a silver tray. “Do you remember when you wore it, Sophia? Was it to the symphony in Vienna? Was that when you—”
“Mom,” I interrupt, “can you help me find the red gown? The one with the, uh”—I point to my shoulders—“funky straps?”
“Sure, honey.” She sets down the silver tray holding three steaming mugs of hot chocolate and a plate of pfeffernüsse. She finds the red gown and hands it to me, winking. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Oh, Charlotte!” Emma gasps, stepping out of the oxblood silk gown.
Swaying from side to side, Charlotte is standing in front of the full-length mirror wearing an iridescent gown that gathers in pleats and darts at her waist and swishes voluminously over her feet; two twisted braids of fabric cross over each other