Katja had never felt so alone before in a room full of people. The gilded hall of de Ragar Manor was overflowing with masked guests, each moving slowly through the golden swirl of gowns and waistcoats. Music, a steady waltz, drifted from the alcove at the north end of the ballroom, becoming an ambient part of the ball’s atmosphere. A servant, clad in black silk, bent low, offering Katja a filled champagne flute from a gleaming platter. She nodded, lifting it delicately, and the servant retreated into the throng. Katja took the glass to her mouth, hand trembling. Honey-colored wine fizzed across her painted red lips as she took a nervous sip.

The deep, husky thrum of the violoncello crescendoed in step with her heart’s furious beating. Blood rushed to her temples, and she inhaled, trying to steady herself. The last thing she needed was to attract attention. Katja Fidatov was an impostor.