In the gilded salons of a Parisian palace, everything seemed perfectly in its place. The chandeliers cast almost liquid flashes of light across the black floor, glasses chimed softly, and the guests smiled with that slightly cold elegance of evenings where people observe one another more than they speak. Hélène de Rochemont knew this world by heart. At sixty-eight, she still moved through it with grace, her back straight, her gaze calm, her face perfectly controlled. Nothing, on the surface, could unsettle her.