The morning after my arrival, Mrs. Wilde appeared at my door, her smile as perfectly arranged as her pearl necklace. "We simply must get you some proper clothes, dear. Those..." Her eyes flickered over my simple blouse and skirt with barely concealed distaste.
I clutched my rosary, suddenly feeling like a child being prepared for a performance. "These are perfectly adequate, Mrs. Wilde. At the convent—"
"At the convent, yes," she interrupted smoothly. "But here, we maintain certain standards." Her tone suggested this was not negotiable. "Zinnia always had such exquisite taste, even as a child. You must learn to present yourself appropriately."
The mention of Zinnia sent a familiar pang through me—the ghost of a life I'd never lived, embodied in a girl who'd taken my place.
Twenty minutes later, we swept through the doors of Bergman's Department Store, where saleswomen materialized before us like summoned spirits. Mrs. Wilde dispatched them with practiced efficiency, ordering selections in sizes she somehow knew would fit me.
"Try these on," she commanded, thrusting garments into my arms. "And do try to stand straighter, Lark. Slouching is so common."
I disappeared into the fitting room, emerging in clothes that felt like costumes—sleek dresses with price tags that could have funded our convent's operating expenses for months. Each time I emerged, Mrs. Wilde would scrutinize me, tsking at my awkward posture or adjusting hems that revealed too much or too little.
"You have your father's height," she remarked, smoothing the fabric of a navy dress across my hips. "Zinnia is more delicate, of course. Men prefer that sort of thing." Her eyes met mine in the mirror. "But we can work with what we have."
I swallowed hard, wondering if this was what maternal concern felt like—this clinical assessment of my flaws and potential.
By afternoon, my arms ached from holding bags, my cheeks hurt from forced smiling, and my spirit felt as wilted as the flowers in Zinnia's solarium. Yet Mrs. Wilde seemed energized by the transformation, as though purchasing these garments somehow made me more worthy of the Wilde name.
"Now you look almost presentable," she declared as we returned to the mansion. "Tomorrow night is the Hendersons' charity gala. It's time you met society."
---
The Henderson mansion glittered like a jewel box, crystal chandeliers casting rainbow prisms across marble floors. I stood beside Celestine in a borrowed dress that felt like armor, watching Zinnia hold court from her wheelchair, her laughter tinkling like the champagne in her flute.
"Ah, there's Tiffany," Celestine murmured, nodding toward a willowy blonde in a dress that cost more than most people's monthly rent. "She's been dying to meet you."
Tiffany Davenport approached with predatory grace, her smile not reaching her eyes. "So you're the convent girl. How... quaint."
"Hello," I said, extending my hand. "I'm Lark."
She ignored it. "Celestine tells us you've been living like some sort of nun? How terribly dreary." Her gaze swept over my dress. "At least you're dressed properly now. Though I suppose some things can't be changed with clothes."
"Actually, Lark was preparing to take her final vows," Celestine interjected, his voice tight. "She has a degree in theology and speaks three languages."
"How useful," Tiffany smirked. "Does that mean you can speak in tongues? Or handle snakes?"
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "I'm afraid you're thinking of Pentecostals. Catholic nuns don't typically—"
"Oh, don't be so serious," she laughed, turning away. "Come on, everyone's gathering in the solarium. The real party's happening there."
I watched her saunter away, feeling Celestine's hand on my elbow. "Ignore her," he muttered. "She's Zinnia's shadow."
The solarium was a glass-walled paradise filled with exotic flowers and even more exotic people. As we entered, conversations stuttered to a halt, eyes turning toward us—or rather, toward me.
"That's her," someone whispered. "The convent freak."
"Look at her hands," another voice murmured. "Calluses from scrubbing floors, I bet."
I kept my chin high, though my heart hammered against my ribs. These people were supposed to be my brother's friends, my new community. Instead, they watched me like specimens in a zoo.
Zinnia wheeled gracefully through the crowd, which parted for her like the Red Sea. "Everyone's been asking about you," she told me, her smile sweet as poison. "Our mysterious sister who chose God over family."
"That's not entirely accurate," I began, but she had already turned away, engaging a circle of admirers in animated conversation.
I drifted toward a group discussing something called an "IPO," nodding politely though I had no idea what they were talking about. When I tentatively asked a question, the conversation abruptly shifted to a different topic.
"Oh, Lark wouldn't understand," a young man in a tailored suit said with a dismissive wave. "She's been too busy communing with the Almighty to learn about the real world."
Laughter rippled through the group. I retreated to the bar, ordering a sparkling water to have something to do with my hands.
A waiter passed with a tray of champagne flutes. On impulse, I took it, thinking I might circulate and at least be useful. What harm could there be in offering drinks?
I approached a cluster of young women who had been watching me with thinly veiled curiosity. "Would you care for some champagne?" I asked, forcing a smile.
"Is that appropriate, Sister?" one asked, eyeing my tray. "Don't nuns take vows of sobriety?"
"I'm not technically—"
"Oh, leave her alone," another cut in. "Poor thing's probably never even had champagne."
Their laughter drew Celestine's attention. He strode over, his face darkening as he took in the scene.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
"Offering refreshments," I replied, confused by his anger. "I thought it might be helpful."
"Helpful?" He practically spat the word. "You look like hired entertainment."
Before I could respond, he knocked the tray from my hands with a sharp motion. Glass shattered across the marble floor. Champagne soaked the front of my new dress, the pale yellow liquid spreading like blood.
Conversation died. Every eye in the room turned toward us.
"How dare you?" I whispered, shock and humiliation burning through me.
Celestine's face contorted with something between rage and shame. "How dare I? Look at yourself, Lark. You're embarrassing all of us."
In that moment, as champagne dripped from my ruined dress and laughter rippled through the room, I realized a terrible truth: I wasn't just unwanted in this world—I was actively despised.
Across the solarium, Zinnia's wheelchair gleamed in the chandelier light as she watched my humiliation with undisguised satisfaction. And in that moment, I knew this was no accident of circumstance. This was war—and I had only just realized I was fighting it.
As a servant rushed forward with towels, I caught Celestine's arm. "Why am I really here?" I asked, my voice barely audible above the murmurs of the crowd. "The truth, Celestine. Now."
His eyes met mine, and for the first time since our meeting, I saw something genuine there—fear. "Not here," he muttered, glancing around at the curious onlookers. "Please, Lark. Not here."
