Mrs. Lin glanced up from her reading and looked her over. “No mail.”

Aida handed her a stamped envelope, addressed to Mr. Bradley Bix of New Orleans, a confirmation to his request to meet with her about the potential booking at his club. “Would you please put this with the outgoing letters?”

Mrs. Lin set it inside a box behind the counter and nodded to her dress. “Very pretty.”

Aida’s black gown had a flattering bateau neckline and a hem trimmed in long strands of beaded silver fringe. Looped around her wrist was a small steel mesh handbag. Her best evening coat was several years old, but it would get her from the taxi to the door.

“Thanks. I’m doing a séance for a rich widow in the Sea Cliff neighborhood.”

“Whe-ew,” Mrs. Lin whistled. “Fancy new houses there. Hope you charge them a pretty penny.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Though, to be honest, she wasn’t even thinking about the séance or the payment. She was only anxious about the possibility of seeing Winter. It was embarrassing just how much she’d agonized over accepting the job after he’d rushed out of her dressing room. She finally decided that if he didn’t want to see her, she could just say she was there for the money. Maybe he wouldn’t even be there at all. Mrs. Beecham hadn’t mentioned him when Aida had called to accept the job earlier in the day—she’d only given Aida instructions to arrive an hour after dinner, which was being served at eight.

Twilight fog clung to trolley wires and shrouded the tops of buildings as Aida’s taxicab tilted up and down long stretches of the city, heading west to the southwestern edge of the wooded Presidio. The fog was thicker here near the bay, and she lamented not being able to see the view, which the taxi driver assured her was exclusive and divine.

On curvy El Camino del Mar, she was dropped off in front of a terra-cotta Mediterranean mansion. Though it wasn’t as large as the Magnusson home, it sat in the middle of a luxurious amount of land. The house on the adjoining lot was in the middle of construction. Everything was new here. Brand-new, in fact; when she ascended winding steps to the front door, she saw that the green lawn had been laid down in squares. Must be nice to afford all this.

A young maid with a dark complexion opened the door when she knocked. Classical piano music, laughter, and gold light spilled onto the stone steps. “Aida Palmer,” she told the girl, who stared at her with a puzzled look on her face. “The spirit medium,” she clarified.

“Oh! Yes, Mrs. Beecham is expecting you.”

Aida pocketed her gloves and removed her coat, handing it off to the maid as her nerves began jumping. It was the sight of the maid that did it: the girl’s black dress with its white lace collar and apron reminded her of the French maids in Winter’s postcard collection, bending over with no undergarments to dust perfectly clean bookshelves.

Best not to think about that. Best to think of nothing at all. Definitely no need to immediately look for Winter. If he was here, what would she even say? Hello, and thanks for getting me this job?

Right. She was hired help, after all, not a rich socialite attending a party. Why had she not thought of this before she spent the afternoon agonizing over what to wear?

“I’ll let Mrs. Beecham know you’re here in just a moment, miss,” the maid said as she dashed off somewhere, leaving Aida alone.

The home’s entry smelled of a headache-inducing combination of paint fumes and roasted meat. Additional scents of brandy and cigar smoke fought for dominance as Aida followed sounds of chatter into an expansive room with polished wood floors, long gold drapes, and upholstered ivory furniture. Near the windows, a lively group of guests mingled around a white baby grand piano. A handful of older men in formal tails and younger men in tuxedos were enjoying post-dinner drinks with twice as many women in evening gowns. The room was a blur of feathers and beads and silk.

No Winter. Her heart sank.

As a piano player took a seat behind the baby grand, a gentleman nearby took notice of her. “Why, hello there. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Robert Morran, Florie’s cousin.” He offered her a dazzling smile. By the glazed look in his eye, he was at least one or two sheets to the wind—and by the way he jostled the glass in his hand, clinking the ice against the sides in a futile attempt to get a servant’s attention, he was trying for three.

“Aida Palmer.”

“An unusual name for an unusually pretty woman.” He gave up flagging the servant and fiddled with a light brown pencil-thin mustache. “How do you know Florie, my dear?”

“I don’t. I’m the medium.”

“Oh! How exciting.” He clinked his ice again while perusing her figure. “Tell me, Miss Palmolive—”

“Palmer,” she said crisply, adjusting her handbag’s position around her wrist.

“Miss Palmer.” He chuckled and ran his tongue over his top teeth. “Yes. So very unusual. I’m a great admirer of unusual beauty. Tell me, dear, what am I thinking right now?”

It took everything she had not to roll her eyes. “I’m a spirit medium, not a telepath.”

“Oh, that’s no fun. Come now. I’m sure you have more than one talent. Maybe some fortune-telling.”

Entertain me! Frighten me! Make the table lift from the floor! She could see how this séance would turn out. Why had she agreed to do this again? Oh, that’s right: the small fortune being dangled in front of her face . . . and the foolish hope that she’d get a chance to study Winter’s backside again. She’d called him depraved, but clearly she was the one who couldn’t control her own animal urges.