The backstage area that day was like a battlefield wrapped in satin ribbon and the scent of powder.
Servants and dancers ran back and forth, carrying stacks of costumes, hairbrushes, and faces of panic that looked more strained than soldiers on the battlefield.
Someone screamed because their lipstick was missing; another was close to tears because the ribbon on their dress wasn't symmetrical, despite being adjusted repeatedly.
I stood in the middle of the chaos with grace (according to myself), while chewing on a piece of cake I had managed to sneak away from the party earlier.
And yes, that cake felt like the only civilized thing in the world. If a reporter had been present, they would surely write: "Amidst the chaos, only Lady Liliane remained radiant with a piece of cake in her dainty hand."
"Mary! Clara! Quick! Prepare me for a world that is eager to welcome my masterpiece," I loudly commanded, with the spirit of a war commander—or perhaps a diva losing patience.
