16

The thing about time? It’s a tricky sorcerer of illusion, first crawling slow enough to bleed me dry before accelerating without warning. A full week passes before I muster the courage to end my hiatus and face the studio I abandoned.

I push the door open, and the air hints at neglect and musty spaces. Daylight streams through the tall windows, casting streaks across the bolts of fabric.

Highlighting the dust.

Exposing my prolonged failure.

Unfinished sketches fan across tables. Measuring tape lies tangled on the floor. A prototype still wears the skeleton of something I once believed in, the burgundy silk drooping from the shoulders, one side pinned, and the other trailing like blood.

Everything is exactly as I left it, and something about that hurts.

I bend down before the tears win and gather the scraps. My fingers shake at first, but the motion steadies as I sweep fabric shavings into my hand. I sort and stack, lining up scissors, putting away stray bobbins, returning fashion magazines to the shelves.

When I reach the far end, my fingers graze a roll of silk, its texture cool to the touch, the hue a vivid sea-blue.

Like Sebastian’s eyes.

I close my own and rest my palm on the fabric, fighting the ache. Willing myself not to break into a pile of fresh pieces. With measured breaths, I mentally chant three words until nothing’s left but static between my ears…

Healing takes time.

So I take the time, even though deep down, I fear I’ll never find that girl again—the one who dreams and creates and designs.

I start by doodling curved lines at my drawing table, pausing now and then to stare out the window. The skies are clear today, the sun’s bright rays encouraging a symphony of birds.

As I return to my doodling, I’m taken aback by the direction those lazy lines took. It almost looks like the beginning of a gown with a royal train.

For some reason, that makes me laugh.

Because if this archaic system is going to force me into a marriage, I might as well become the spectacle everyone’s expecting.

I’m still giggling like a deranged hyena, the vacant room mocking me, when the door creaks open again, softer this time.

The laughter dies in my chest.

Elise pauses on the threshold, bundled in a silver cardigan that strains at the buttons. Her figure is fuller now, with the baby’s arrival not far off.

“I wasn’t sure if I should knock.” The uncertainty in her features stings, because she’s usually so optimistic.

“You’re always welcome.”

She steps inside before shutting the door behind her. “I wanted to talk to you at the memorial, but…”

“No, it’s okay. I was a mess.” Truth is, I barely remember that afternoon, let alone picking out faces in the blur, even familiar ones.