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I breathe a small sigh of relief.

"I can see why my boy is enchanted," Lord Denby announces.Advertisement

A flush works its way into my cheeks, and I find I cannot look at anyone. I have to fight to keep a ridiculous grin from surfacing. I have only one giddy thought in my head: Simon Middleton, a boy of such perfection, likes me, the strange and vexing Gemma Doyle.

Low chuckling ripples through the assembled guests. "Now you've done it," a mustachioed gentleman quips. "She'll never come back."

"Oh, really, Mr. Conrad," Lady Denby chides playfully. I do not see why Felicity thinks so badly of Lady Denby. She seems rather nice to me, and I quite like her.

The evening passes like a happy dream. I have not felt so peaceful and content since before Mother died. Seeing Father come alive again is heaven, and I am finally glad for this strange, beautiful power. During the dinner, he is his old charming self, entertaining

Lady Denby and Simon with tales of India. Grandmama's face, usually lined with worry, is serene tonight, and Tom is actually likeable, if such a thing could be said of him. Of course, he thinks he has cured Father, and for once, I am in no mood to contradict him. It means so much to see my family enjoying themselves. I want to preserve this happy bubble of time, this feeling that I belong somewhere. That I am wanted. I want this night to go on forever. The talk at the table turns to Bethlem. Tom is holding court with tales of his duties there. ". . . he insisted that he was the emperor of West Sussex and as such, should be allowed an extra serving of meat. When I refused, he promised he would have me beheaded. "'

"Dear me." Lady Denby laughs.

"You'd best keep your wits about you, young man. Wouldn't want to wake up with no head," Simon's father says. He has Simon's kind blue eyes.

"Or would that be an improvement in your case, my good man?" Simon taunts Tom, who pretends to be affronted. "Oh, ho! Touche!"

"Now then, my son must keep his head," Father says, looking quite serious. "I paid a dear amount for his new hat, and I shan't get it back." Everyone erupts in laughter.

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Grandmama speaks up."Is it true that Bethlem holds public dances fortnightly, Lady Denby?"

"Yes indeed. It is ever so rejuvenating for them to be amongst the public, to remember the social niceties. My husband and I have gone on several occasions. There's another dance in a week's time. You must come as our guests."

"We'd be delighted," Grandmama says, answering for us all, as she so often does.

My face aches from trying to wear such a pleasant expression at all times. Is it time to don my gloves again? Should I eat the last of my dessert as I'd desperately like or leave half to show my delicate appetite? I do not want to make a misstep, not tonight.

"Oh, do tell us another tale," Lady Denby begs Tom.

"Yes, do," Simon says."Else I'll be forced to talk of the time I looked into the eyes of an unhappy pheasant in the country and you'll all be bored to catatonia." Simon looks at me again. I find I like it when he looks for my reaction. I like being courted. It is rather a powerful feeling.

"Ah, let's see . . . ,"Tom says, thinking. "There was Mr. Waltham, who claimed he could hear what was happening inside each house as he passed--that the very stones spoke to him. I am happy to say that he was cured and released just last month."

"Bravo!" Simon's father exclaims."Nothing science and man can't overcome in time."

"Exactly," Tom says, thrilled to find a friend in so high a place.

"What else?" a lady in a peach silk gown asks.

"There's Mrs. Sommers, who seems to think this life is all a dream and that she sees spirits in her room at night."

"Poor dear," Grandmama says by habit.

These stories are stealing away my happiness. What would my dinner companions think if they knew that I see visions and visit other realms?

Tom continues. "There is Nell Hawkins, age nineteen. Diagnosed with acute mania while away at school."

"You see?" the mustachioed gentleman says, wagging his finger."The female constitution cannot stand up to the rigors of a formal education. Nothing good can come of it."

"Oh, Mr. Conrad," his wife chides playfully. "Do go on, Mr. Doyle."

"Nell Hawkins suffers from delusions," Tom says, preening.

Father joins in."Thinks she's Joan of Arc, does she?"

"No, that would be Mr. Jernigan in ward M1B. Miss Hawkins is unique. She suffers from the delusion that she is part of some mystical sect of sorceresses called the Order." pqdm.com