If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the conversation that took place in my bedroom the night of my mother's party. It was the last night of my girlhood, so how could I possibly fail to recall it? The words that passed between us are permanently seared into my consciousness.

My eyes flickered from the broken bracelet on the dresser to my mother's meticulously painted features. "I...I beg your forgiveness, mother," I said, cringing at the pathetic quiver in my voice. "I should never have lost track of the time the way that I did—"

"No, you should not have," my mother said, cutting me off. "Just as you should have seen to your own appearance rather than giving an edge to your competition."

"But it was only a bracelet!" I protested. "It was her mother's bracelet!"

"Silence!"

My breath caught in my throat. Seldom does my mother raise her voice. When she does, it means that she is furious beyond reason. I quickly lowered my gaze, wondering what on earth I had done to make her so angry.

"Do you know who came and introduced himself after you disappeared to God knows where in the middle of the party?"

I did not bother to answer. It was apparent that she was going to inform me of the answer whether I wanted her to or not. And inform me she did.

Apparently, my stepfather had introduced my mother to a wealthy marquis while I was off arguing with Remy over the alleged merits of a mediocre French writer. Upon hearing that the Marquis de Averdon had a young son only a few years older than I, my mother immediately sought to introduce the man to her daughters, but the marquis assured her that we had already met—although to be fair, I only vaguely recollect meeting the white-haired man. At any rate, he had no time for further introductions as he had a long journey ahead of him the next day and was just about to make his exit.

Unfortunately, his visit was still much too long.

Immediately after the marquis made his apologies, my mother noticed the bracelet glittering on Ella's wrist. Ella, as I mentioned previously, spent most of the evening at her father's side and had been present during the introduction. My mother immediately asked her where she had gotten the bracelet.

"Jocelin gave it to me," was her reply. "I think that she had intended to wear it, but she gave it to me when she realized that it had belonged to Mama."

My stepfather's face had tightened in anger at the realization that my mother had chosen to bestow his late wife's bracelet on me rather than on the dead woman's own daughter. Before my mother could smooth his ruffled spirits with a few honeyed words, the marquis interjected with a laugh.

"A very pretty bracelet it is too, though your daughter hardly needs it," he said with a genuine smile. "Leave the twinkling trinkets to other girls. Lord knows they will need them if they hope to compete with an angel like her." 

And with those few words, the unwitting man changed my life overnight.

That brief conversation—coldly recounted to me by my mother that night as she twisted the broken bracelet in her slender fingers—made two things shockingly clear. First of all, it revealed that my mother did not have her new husband as completely under her thumb as she originally thought. Secondly, it established without a doubt that Ella was more beautiful and favored than I.

A hot feeling of shame poured over me, burning my skin. It was impossible to discard the marquis's offhanded remark. The man was wealthier and more powerful than my stepfather and little more than a mere acquaintance to him. He had no need to try and ingratiate himself with anyone present during the exchange, and my mother knew it.

How I wish to God she didn't.

The first thing that she had me do was stand in front of the floor-length mirror to catalogue my deficiencies. "You chose not to set aside sufficient time to take care of your appearance," my mother said, standing behind me. "You chose to squander what time you did have in aiding a rival. Now, take a long look at your reflection and ask yourself if you are beautiful enough to safely engage in such behavior."

Biting my lower lip to curb the acidic dread eating away at the pit of my stomach, I did as she said. I stared at my reflection until my eyes hurt, cringing as a slew of faults I never noticed before sprang up before my gaze.

I was pretty. I had heard enough people say it to know that it must be true. Besides, even if those compliments were mostly flattery, the envious glances the girls in the city used to give me were enough to convince me. That night, however, I suddenly noticed that my nose was rather a shade too big for my face. I realized with a start that the tiny red bumps that had spontaneously sprung up beneath my hairline a few months ago had begun migrating down my forehead. Another glance revealed that my bosoms were rather small, even for my tender age. I closed my eyes to erase this new image of myself.

"Beauty is an art, my darling, not just being blessed with a pretty face," my mother said in a much gentler tone as she bent to kiss me fondly on the temple. "And unlike that spoiled child, you have what it takes to win over the hearts of an empire. You must learn to use it."

The door opened, and a maid entered, shattering the moment. My curiosity was instantly piqued by the bundle she carried in her arms. She placed it on the bed and backed away as my mother folded back the white cloth obscuring the item from view. My breath caught in my throat when I recognized what it was.

It wasn't as though I was a stranger to corsets. Like other girls my age, I wore a flexible whalebone corset underneath my dresses. What made this corset different were its gleaming steel stays.

I suppose that I always knew this night would come. As a child, I remember seeing my mother gasping for air as the maid cinched a similar garment around her waist. When I asked her why she subjected herself to such a torturous device, my mother's lips curled into a smile as she said, "Beauty is pain, darling." She then proceeded to recount how she used to sleep in the corset when she was a maiden in order to achieve the wasp-like waist that had entranced so many young men. She assured me that one day I, too, would voluntarily sleep in a corset with metal stays.

My mother was partially correct. After such a humiliating defeat, I was determined to wear the corset. I did not, however, actually sleep that wretched night—the price of beauty, I suppose.

After a miserable breakfast the next morning, I was ushered back upstairs into my room where I was poked and prodded and painted within an inch of my life. A dressmaker arrived to take my measurements for a new, more grown-up wardrobe. In the meantime, I was given one of my mother's dresses to wear, newly altered to fit me. My mother's hairdresser was summoned to curl my hair and stack it neatly atop my head in the latest fashion. When at last my mother was satisfied with the results, she nodded and motioned that I look in the mirror.

The face staring back at me was striking, beautiful, and utterly unrecognizable. A strange feeling settled in the pit of my stomach that was half dismay, half delight. My eyes shifted from my reflection to that of my mother standing behind me. Her gray eyes gleamed with satisfied approval. I felt myself relax a bit. She was happy.

"You look beautiful, darling," my mother said, giving my arms an affectionate squeeze. "That child will be no match for you once I am through."

What exactly she meant by those words, I was to learn in the weeks that followed. My days became a whirlwind of social calls, lessons in mastering the art of coquetry, and a more diligent pursuit of ladylike accomplishments. While I considered these activities ridiculous in and of themselves, I was no imbecile and clearly recognized them for what they were: a means to an end.

My mother prohibited me from entering the library, saying that it was time that I stopped indulging in useless pastimes and focused on cultivating skills that actually mattered. I was too occupied and too tired to fight her over the decision. Still, some nights when the suffocating corset and my aching ribs made it difficult to sleep, I would slip into the library and steal a book to read by candlelight. Somehow, those sleepless nights left me feeling more refreshed than the nights when I actually managed to succumb to exhaustion at an earlier hour.

As much as I loathed the new life thrust upon me, I threw myself into it with all the zeal of a martyr. At least the physical pain distracted me from the shame occasioned by the marquis's innocuous comments. How I hated that wretched party! It had shattered the image I had previously had of myself to pieces and forced me to see reality—a useful and necessary experience, but a painful one nonetheless.

When I close my eyes, I can still see Ella prattling with her father's friends, unconsciously captivating the very gazes that I worked so hard to attract. I see the disapproval in my mother's eyes as she looked me over that night when I was weighed and found wanting.

As I said, the night of the party is burned into my brain.

Nevertheless, at least one good thing resulted from that horrid affair. It arrived in the shape of a letter. About a week after the party, a maid knocked on my door and entered bearing the mail tray. Puzzled, I looked over the unfamiliar script.

For some ridiculous reason, my heartbeat quickened as I recognized the name on the envelope. Remy. The letter itself was only a few paragraphs long, but it provoked the first genuine smile to grace my face in weeks.

Mademoiselle,

Forgive me my impertinence in taking the liberty of writing to you, but I wanted to let you know that having now read the works of Jacques Esprit, I believe your accusations toward Moreau are correct. 

Having become well-acquainted with your thoughts toward Moreau, I am now insatiably curious as to what your opinions are on Esprit's writings, particularly his analysis of aristocratic virtues. I found it inspired.

 Alas, I am at school in Paris now and completely surrounded by rich idiots who do not know Étienne Vigée from Voltaire. As I cannot engage your keen mind in person, I fear a mere letter must suffice.

Impatiently awaiting your reply,

Remy

Knowing that my mother would object to my engaging in a scholarly debate with the younger son of lower aristocrat, I contemplated whether or not I should respond. It was only a matter of minutes before I found myself firing off a reply. As long as I took certain precautions, my mother need never know.

As it was, my mother was soon too preoccupied with my stepfather's upcoming journey to notice. My stepfather made a trip to Paris once every year, and my mother took it upon herself to aid him in settling affairs before his departure. After what happened at the party, I think that she was relieved to see him go.

Ella was, of course, miserable at the prospect of her father leaving. Her face was streaked with tears the morning that he left. Rather than feeling sympathy as I watched her cry her eyes out, I was filled with satisfaction at the sight of her puffy eyes and red nose.

Whatever slender thread of empathy might have existed between us had snapped the night of the party. It was as if she had stolen my birthright. I felt nothing but a simmering hatred at the mere sight of her. Whenever we were in a room together, I sensed my mother's gaze shifting between us, weighing us against one another. Several times I still found myself wanting in spite of all my efforts.

As if to rub salt in the wound, Ella was blissfully unaware of the fact that any sort of rivalry existed between us. She never fussed about her appearance—she didn't have to. She treated me as considerately as ever, responding to my thinly-veiled insults with kindness.

"Do you truly have to go, Papa?" Ella said, her voice muffled as she buried her face in his coat.

"Yes, dearest," he said, stroking her hair. "I promise to bring you all back gifts to make up for it though. What would you like?"

Gigi's ears immediately perked up at the question. "A new dress," she said eagerly. It had been highly amusing watching Gigi froth at the mouth with envy over my new wardrobe.

"A new dress sounds lovely," I said simply to irk my sister. "In Paris they have all the latest styles."

"And you?" my stepfather said, tilting Ella's chin up to look into her tear-filled eyes.

Ella thought about it for a moment. "Bring me back the first branch to brush your shoulder on your journey."

He laughed at the bizarre request. "Certainly," he said, folding her in a last embrace. "And do not fret—I will return with your cutting before you know it."

It has long been my observation that when a person makes such a promise, he seldom keeps his word. The days drag on for the ones left behind until he returns at the appointed time. It was not so in my stepfather's case, however—God rest his soul. Two days after his departure, his body was brought back home for burial, a hazel cutting clutched tightly in his cold hands.