The lady would be delighted to dance.
Anna crooked her arm around the waist of her phantom beauty; she had danced with her many times. Though Anna could not see her face, she swore she could feel the fabric of her lover’s dress, the soft swooshing noise it made as it brushed the floor. The lady’s heart was fluttering as Anna pressed her hand. Her lady would wear a delicate scent. Orange blossom, perhaps. Anna would press her face closer to the lady’s ear and whisper.
“You are quite the most beautiful girl here,” Anna would say.
The lady would blush and press closer.
“How is it you look more lovely in every light?” Anna would go on. “The way the velvet of your dress crushes against your skin. The way your—”
“Anna!”
She dropped her airy companion to the floor in her surprise.
“Anna!” her mother called again. “Where are you?”
Anna hurried to her door and opened it just a crack.
“Here!” she said in a panic.
“Can you come down, please?”
“Of course,” Anna replied, already pulling at the ascot around her neck. “Coming!”
Anna had to step right through her fallen dancing partner in her haste. Off with the waistcoat, the trousers. Everything off, off, off. She shoved the clothes into the bottom of her wardrobe. The discarded dress was hastily put back on, her fingers fumbling on the buttons. Everything about girls’ clothing was fussy and complicated.
Several minutes later, she hurried downstairs, attempting to look composed. Her mother, Cecily Lightwood, was sifting through a stack of letters at her desk in the sitting room.
“We ran into Inquisitor Bridgestock while we were walking,” she said. “The Bridgestocks have just arrived from Idris. They’ve asked us to dine with them this evening.”
“Dinner with the Inquisitor,” Anna said. “What a thrilling way to spend an evening.”
“It is necessary,” her mother said simply. “We must go. Can you keep an eye on Christopher while we are talking? Make sure he doesn’t set anything on fire. Or anyone.”
“Yes,” Anna said automatically, “of course.”
It would be a dreadful affair. Clave business accompanied by overcooked beef. There were so many other things she could be doing on a fine summer night in London. What if she could walk the streets, finely dressed, a beautiful girl on her arm?
Someday, the lady would not be imaginary. The clothes would not be borrowed and ill-fitting. Someday she would stride down the street and women would fall at her feet (not failing to notice her perfectly polished brogues) and men would tip their hats to a lady-killer more accomplished than they.
Just not tonight.