Cold Spring, 1899

Twelfth Night

They say he's bankrupted himself rebuilding the house'”all for her, of course.' Carrie Rheinlander's voice carried along the high, arched ceiling. 'œAnd then there are those frightful stories about . . . oh, Janie! I didn't see you there.'

No one ever did.

Sometimes, Janie felt like the threads on an old tapestry, blending into the background. That backdrop served its own purpose, Janie knew, but once, just once, she wished she could blaze out in a luster of silver and gold.

But not here. Here, everyone glittered, everyone blazed. Her brother's guests dazzled in garb that would have put a Medici to shame, every breast adorned with diamonds and rubies, every neck hung round with gold chains. The men peacocked in tights and short cloaks; the women dazzled in silks and velvets woven with gold and sewn with jewels. Janie's own costume seemed modest in comparison, the garnets set in and around the squared neckline subdued in their opulence, the poor cousin of rubies.

'œCarrie.' Janie acknowledged Carrie's greeting with a shy nod. They had played dolls together, made their debut together, but Carrie had no time for her now. Carrie had married and Janie hadn't. Against that, all the bonds of kinship and childhood counted as nothing.

Carrie lifted a jeweled hand in acknowledgment, but she was already sailing past. 'œPoor Janie Van Duyvil,' she murmured to her companion. 'œAll that money and still on the shelf.'