This was it.

The one.

The dress that—with a few of her embellishments—would make her, Jasmine Fitzpatrick, the belle of the cotillion ball.

Of course, after last season’s debacle, she’d need all the help she could get.

Jasmine picked up her copy of Godey’s Lady’s Book and bounced down the staircase of the family brownstone, stopping at the first- floor landing to take a deep breath. Today was the day she would confront her parents. Each time she had tried to broach the subject of the ball during the past couple weeks, they had studiously avoided it or given her excuses about needing to cut out extraneous expenses. Her mother had even cancelled a planned shopping trip for the two of them last week. But time was growing short. After all, the ball was only three months away.

She moved from the hallway to the front parlor, where her parents usually relaxed on a Saturday afternoon. Her mother, Charlotte, was sitting on the loveseat and stitching a piece of embroidery while Jasmine’s father, George, sat nearby in a tan leather chair, reading his daily newspaper. There was a low buzz of conversation between them that Jasmine couldn’t quite make out, but she did catch an expression of worry on her mother’s face. Undeterred, she plunged into the room, waving the fashion book.

“Look what I just found! The perfect debutante gown for the cotillion ball in April. Look, Mother. Don’t you think it’s delightful? Or at least it will be when I add some glass beads to catch the light, and maybe some lace trim . . .” She laid the open book in her mother’s lap and then took a seat opposite them.

Jasmine caught the quick wrinkling of her father’s brow and began to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was not right.

Her mother ran a hand down the front of her throat. “We were just talking about the upcoming season, dear.”

Jasmine let out the breath she’d been holding. “Well, good. We’re thinking along the same lines, then. It’s imperative we begin assembling my wardrobe, and I need to get some new slippers to replace the treacherous ones Monsieur Louboutin made for me last year.”

Her mother reached over and patted Jasmine’s hand. “We may both have had the same topic on our minds, but we are definitely not thinking along the same lines. To begin with, you don’t need a white debutante gown, since you were introduced to society last year.”

Jasmine’s uneasy stomach turned over. “But . . .but . . .no!” She leapt to her feet and began to pace the room. “I was a debutante for all of fifteen minutes last season, before I fell and broke my ankle. I demand to start over. There are other nineteen-year-olds who are among those to be introduced this year.”