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by a thin, intermittent wind. It was not yet nine o’clock when Elizabeth left her boardinghouse and joined the throngs of people already out and about, buzzing with anticipation for the day’s events. She saw not one familiar face among the thousands as she walked the few blocks to Mrs. McLean’s house. Along the way she spotted evidence of out-of-town visitors who had been unable to find room in the city’s packed hotels and had instead spentthe night on the streets—a makeshift bed on a pile of lumber, a line of people waiting to wash up at a public pump. An excited crowd was milling about Willard’s Hotel when Elizabeth arrived, and she struggled to work her way through it to the McLeans’ residence on the opposite side of the street. Breathless, she knocked loudly upon the front door, uncertain whether she would be heard at all, but before long the doorman answered. When she gave her name and explained her errand, she was told that Mrs. McLean was not at home. Just as she was wondering whether she should wait there or try to return home, one of Colonel McLean’s aides appeared and told her she was wanted at Willard’s.
    Perplexed, Elizabeth again braved the throng, crossed the street, and somehow managed to push her way into the hotel through the crowded entrance. “There you are,” someone exclaimed, and a hand seized her shoulder and whirled her about. It was Mrs. McLean, her gaze sharp and incredulous. “Why did you not come yesterday, as I requested?”
    “Your note didn’t say that it was urgent,” Elizabeth reminded her.
    “On the eve of the inauguration, how could it be otherwise?” Mrs. McLean’s mouth thinned in disapproval. “Mrs. Lincoln wanted to see you, but I fear that now you are too late.”
    “Mrs. Lincoln wanted to see
me
?”
    Mrs. McLean nodded impatiently. “A week ago, someone spilled coffee on the gown Mrs. Lincoln intended to wear today. She needed a dressmaker, so I recommended you. Lo and behold, she recognized your name. Apparently you’ve worked for some of her lady friends in St. Louis, not that it matters now.”
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. McLean,” said Elizabeth, her heart sinking. If Mrs. Lincoln had requested a dressmaker, why on earth had Mrs. McLean waited a week to summon her? “You did not say what you wanted with me yesterday, so I judged that this morning would do as well.”
    “You should have come yesterday,” Mrs. McLean scolded, but then she relented, if only a trifle. “Go on up to Mrs. Lincoln’s room. She may find use for you yet.”
    As soon as Mrs. McLean gave her the number of the suite, Elizabethhurried off to find parlor number six. When she knocked upon the door, a cheerful voice invited her to enter, and when she stepped into the room, she found herself face-to-face with a dark-haired woman just over forty, inclined to stoutness but with a lovely complexion and clear blue eyes that boasted a quick, keen gaze. All about her were well-dressed ladies helping her prepare for the inauguration.
    The dark-haired woman did not introduce herself, nor did she need to. “You are Elizabeth Keckley, I believe.”
    Elizabeth bowed her assent.
    “The dressmaker that Mrs. McLean recommended?”
    “Yes, madam.”
    “Very well.” Mrs. Lincoln returned to her dressing table and examined her face in the mirror, touching the delicate skin beneath her eyes, frowning at what might have been newly discovered or newly imagined lines. “I have not time to talk to you now, but would like to have you call at the White House, at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” Turning in her seat, she caught Elizabeth’s gaze and held it. “Where I shall then be.”
    The brief meeting was over. Elizabeth bowed herself out of the room and returned home, insensible to the ever-increasing crowds, the gathering of horses and men for the grand parade, the distant strains of martial music. Only a few years before, she had been a slave in St. Louis, working herself into a state of near