Camille comes in without knocking.

"What are you doing?" she asks, catching Rose fiddling with her music box. She hastily closes the lid.

"Nothing."

Camille looks at her suspiciously. "Cal got back over an hour ago. Where were you?"

"I must have been in the shower. I didn't know he would be back today."

"He is."

"Are you two going to dinner again?"

"No." Camille shakes her right leg, twisting her ankle on the high heel, like an upset child trying not to cry, "He wants to take you."

"Fuck!" Rose collapses on the bed in exasperation. "What the hell? What does he want from me?"

"Language, child," Camille chastises.

"You aren't serious."

"I'm serious about Cal. Put on something very nice. You're going out in public."

"Camille!"

"What?"

"This isn't right. He should be taking you."

"Cal can do whatever he likes," she answers, repeating her mantra from that morning.

"I don't have anything nice to wear. Tell him I'm not hungry," Rose casts around for an excuse. She's wanted to get out of the house all day, but now that the opportunity's

presented itself, she feels anxious.

"I'll do no such thing. He wants to go out to dinner with you. If I were you, I'd be thrilled."

"I'm not. I'm nervous."

"You'll be with Cal. You'll be fine. Take your cues from him, and you'll be fine."

"Can you come too?"

"Don't be a child."

"I am a child!"

"Don't be ridiculous. When I was your age . . . I most definitely didn't consider myself a child."

Despite her whining and protests, or maybe because of them, Camille patiently helps Rose get ready.

"I want to wear black," Rose insists, and together they pick out an elegant dress from Camille's own closet, with a low sweetheart cut and lace in the back and along the sleeves.

"It fits perfectly!" Rose marvels.

"Not quite. It's an old dress, but I've never had your body." Camille uses gold pins to secure the waist.

"Don't let him stab himself taking it off you." The thought of Cal undressing her should make Rose queasy, but instead it shoots a spark of excitement through her body.

She agrees to wear Camille's stilettos, as well as a wool coat with large mirrored buttons.

"How do you want your hair?" Camille asks her.

"Pig tails. Ribbons."

"I'm leaving it down and curling the ends a little," Camille tells her, ignoring her comments.

"Wow."

Camille and Rose stand at the three-way mirror in Camille's own porcelain and gold bathroom

"Thank you," Rose responds, "for making me look this way," she tells her, turning her head from side to side, marveling that this is really her.

"You could model."

"Oh, I'd rather go to med school and be a doctor," she answers.

Cal meets her in the foyer, already ready to go, with his coat on and a black silk scarf around his neck.

He catches sight of Rose at the top of his stairs and beams. He can't help himself. Camille has never seen him this happy before, and she smiles down from behind Rose. She pats her on the shoulder, "Go on sweetheart, have fun," she murmurs and turns to go back up to her room.

"Good night, darling," Cal calls to Camille. Her heart flutters and she turns to grin down at him, grateful for his caring acknowledgment.

"Yes, Sir, you too. Enjoy yourself," Camille tells him, then leaves Rose to face the night alone.

"Take the coat off," Cal tells her when she reaches him. "I want to see what you're wearing."

She obeys, letting Cal take the heavy coat from her. "Interesting," he muses, looking her up and down, then briefly glancing to the spot at the top of the stairs where Camille disappeared.

"Nice?" Rose asks.

"Do you like my shirt?" he mocks, holding her coat out for her, then leading her outside by the small of her back.

"Holy hell," she gasps, stepping into the freezing night. Her breath materializes in front of her in a smoky vapor. He puts his arm across her shoulders and pulls her to him. "I'm sorry, dear, were you spoken to?" he whispers in her ear.

"No, Sir."

"That'll be a thigh spread."

Her heart beats, and something dances in her stomach. Not butterflies. The entire animal kingdom. "Yes, Sir."

"Back or front?" Cal asks. It takes Rose a moment to realize he's asking if she wants to sit in the passenger or the back seat of his car.

"Oh, front please, Sir." He holds the door open as she slides into the sleek black car. Everything inside smells new.

They ride in relative silence, Cal enjoying the feel of the car as it hugs the curves of the road or shoots forward at every green light. Rose obediently remains silent until she's spoken to but thinks it's silly. She wants to ask Cal about his day—how his meeting went, what he had for breakfast, if he thought about her, everything. She wants to tell him about Camille and how he should forget about Rose and focus on her instead, because she needs him and loves him. There are a million things Rose would say if only she weren't chastened into silence.

"Will you eat French food?" Cal finally asks her, as they're already pulling up to what looks likean extremely elegant and expensive restaurant on a ritzy street of shops and lounges. A valet is already running toward them to park the car.

"Yes, Sir," Rose looks back to answer as she's helped out of the car.