“You think a stain on a dress breaks my spirit?”

I turned my gaze to Rosalie, who shifted under it.

“This dress,” I said, “was hand-stitched by a master in Florence.

The fabric alone cost more than every flower in this room combined.” My mother’s hand went to her pearls.

“But I’m not upset.

Truly.

Consider it a gift, Rosalie — I’m giving the ruined thing to your jealousy, because a stained piece of silk is going to be the very smallest of your problems tonight.”

“How dare you.” My father dropped the microphone onto the tablecloth and came down off the dais toward me, his face dark.