The table is laid with the good silver, each fork positioned perfectly, napkins wrangled into delicate swans and lilies. Marla's mother has been orchestrating this since early morning: the caterer's arrival at nine, the florist at ten, the final "walk-through" at two while Marla sits in her room pretending to catch up on holiday reading after church. She's dressed carefully. A navy dress with a neckline that isn't too conservative, and not too showy, understated jewelry, hair arranged perfectly, after forty-five minutes at her bathroom mirror with a curling wand. She looks as if she has stepped out of a magazine.

She can't quite tell if she likes it.

The guests arrive between seven and seven-fifteen. There are always exactly eight: Marla's parents, Aunt Lillian, the Hendersons from two streets over with three children at Eton, the Smiths, and the Ashworths. Brian hasn't been invited this year. Her mother said he was with Giuletta in Rome this Christmas. Marla knows from his Instagram that he is in Bristol. She knows not to bring it up: Marla's role tonight is to be present, intelligent but not showy, warm but not effusive, interesting but not attention-seeking.

She knows this.

"Marla, darling," Mrs. Henderson says, kissing her cheek. "How's St Anne's treating you? Your mother says you're doing brilliantly."

"It's been quite demanding," Marla replies, the correct level of humility in her voice. "But I'm enjoying it."

"Demanding in what way?" Mr. Smith asks.

Marla considers her answer carefully. "Academically, socially. There's a lot of... presence expected."

"That's what the best schools do," Mrs. Ashworth says, as though this is obviously positive. "They prepare you for a life where you're always being watched."

Marla only smiles.

Dinner is announced. Everyone moves to the table with a sort of choreographed ease that Marla finds slightly disconcerting without the set dressing of uniforms and class-times. Marla's mother--Emmeline--sits at one end, her father at the other, creating the illusion of democratic seating. Marla finds herself next to Aunt Lillian. The first course is soup. Everything is soup first, then fish, then meat, then something "light" for dessert. The progression is as certain as liturgy.

Marla can feel her aunt's attention like a weight. She doesn't look at her; she focuses on her soup spoon, on the precise angle she must hold it.

"You look thinner," her aunt continues. "Diminished."

"I'm managing fine," Marla says.

"You always say that."

Across the table, Mr. Smith is telling a story about his son's first term at Oxford. Everyone is laughing at the appropriate moments. Her father is nodding at something Mrs. Henderson said about the housing market. Everything is proceeding exactly as it should. Emmeline catches her eye and holds it for just a moment: be present, be appropriate. Marla nods fractionally. The check is complete.

The fish course arrives, cod, cooked to translucent flaccidity, lay upon a bed of tasteless pea and mint purée. Everyone compliments it anyway.

"Marla, I heard you might be Head Girl next year," the Ashworth daughter (Catherine? Caroline?) says. "That's extraordinary."

"Not yet," Marla replies. "The selection hasn't been finalized."

"But you're expecting to be chosen?"

"I'm hoping to be," Marla says carefully. There's a precision to this language: hope is acceptable, expectation is arrogant.

"Well, I'm sure you will be," Catherine/Caroline says. "You have that look about you."

Marla swallows around a thin fish bone. It cuts her on the way down. "That's very kind of you to say."

After dinner there's coffee in the sitting room. The men cluster near the fireplace discussing golf and cricket. The women distribute themselves across the sofas, Marla's mother fielding questions about her charity work, something to do with children's literacy, which Catherine/Caroline volleys animated questions about with a disinterested investment.

Marla sits on the edge of a sofa, coffee balanced precisely on her knee, and listens.

"You're very quiet tonight," Aunt Lillian observes, joining her on the periphery.

"Just listening," Marla says.

"To what?"

Marla considers this. "Nothing in particular."

"There's something different about you," her aunt says quietly. "Since the last time I saw you. Something's shifted."

"School's demanding," Marla offers.

"It's not that." Her aunt leans closer. "It's like you're listening to something I can't hear. Are you quite alright?"

"Yes," Marla says. "I'm fine." She pauses, fidgeting by running a nail around the rim of her saucer, considering her next move. She decides that it is a perfectly reasonable move to make, she is eighteen after all, and her Aunt will likely delight in the conspiratorial delinquency of it all. "Aunt Lillian?" She asks.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Do you have..." she lowers her voice fractionally, tilting her head downwards in such a way to not interrupt her curls, "a cigarette?"

Aunt Lillian’s smile doesn’t change, but her posture does: an infinitesimal straightening, a flicker of amusement behind the eyes. She has always enjoyed being the person Marla comes to when she wants to step half an inch outside the lines. “Of course I do,” she murmurs, as though Marla has asked for a breath mint. “But not here.”

Her hand drifts to her clutch, tapping it once with a manicured finger. Then she rises, smoothing her skirt, and says, loud enough for the room to hear, soft enough to sound incidental: “I’m going to get a bit of air.”

Marla waits three polite seconds before standing. Her mother’s assessing gaze flicks toward her, but Marla offers a serene, dutiful smile. Just stretching my legs. Emmeline nods, satisfied. The hallway is dimmer. Aunt Lillian is already at the back door, holding it open with a conspiratorial elegance. Outside, the garden is washed in moonlight, the hydrangeas pale and ghostly. The air is cool, a relief after the thick warmth of the sitting room. Aunt Lillian produces a slim silver case, flips it open, and offers it to Marla.

“Only take one,” she says lightly. “I've seen enough little girls pretend to be seasoned smokers,” she snaps the case closed. "And had enough little girls throw up on me to know when enough is enough," Aunt Lillian says, exhaling a perfect ribbon of smoke. “You are different.”

Marla looks out over the garden. “In a good way?”

“In an interesting way,” her aunt replies. “I like a girl who knows how to weigh her choices.”

Marla lets the smoke curl from her lips. “I don’t know what I’m choosing.”

“Oh, darling.” Aunt Lillian smiles. “You’re choosing yourself. That’s always the beginning.”