I would, of course, need something to wear.

If I have been granted the extraordinary privilege of going anywhere in history, I refuse to squander it by arriving inadequately dressed.

There would need to be a gown. Not merely a pretty one. Something extravagant. Silk, perhaps. A waist requiring assistance and a skirt possessing its own opinions about how much of the room it requires.

To achieve it, I have surrendered my ribs to sixteen inches of rigid whalebone and tight-laced silk—a structured cage that dictates exactly how deeply I am permitted to breathe. I am beautifully encased in armor disguised as luxury.

There would be gloves. Jewels. And shoes I would undoubtedly regret before midnight.

Perfect.

Now I am ready.

The carriage is waiting.

That alone deserves a moment. No automobile humming impatiently at the curb. Just horses shifting beneath their harnesses, the soft creak of leather, and a carriage door held open as though I have always traveled this way.

I climb inside, treating my massive skirt like an uncooperative passenger.

What a splendid affair this is becoming.

There are other carriages ahead of us now. Quite a few, actually.

There is something rather distinct in the air tonight—the faint perfume of old money and new money occupying the same street.

The gentlemen appear equally committed to the occasion, although some have made decisions that suggest wealth and good judgment do not necessarily arrive together.

I approve enormously.

My carriage slows. Music can be heard somewhere beyond the doors ahead.

I take the invitation from the seat beside me and gather my skirt. A waiting hand helps me down.

Only then do I look up.

660 Fifth Avenue.

The Vanderbilt mansion.

A fancy-dress ball.

March 26, 1883.