She flops back onto her mattress, her cackle echoing around the room. The dresses tumble on top of her, burying my cousin beneath a mound of silk and lace.

I try to stomp over to the bed, but on my way, I trip on the skirt and collapse right on top of her with an unceremonious oof. I pluck a pinstriped corset from atop her face, finding her grinning beneath. “May I please have my own dress back?”

“Fine. But we are going straight to Market Street to buy you something without ruffles.”

She says it as if I’m bound to protest when I’m as anxious to go shopping as she is.

By the time we find my dress, the entire room is a disaster. I offer to help Nia clean up, but she insists on leaving for town straightaway, saying she would simply share the guest room with me tonight and deal with the mess in the morning.

I change out of the too-small corset and back into my mother’s favorite dress. The mauve satin might not be in the height of fashion with its high neckline and flouncy skirts, but at least my nipples are well hidden.

* * *

Together, we stroll down the cobbled streets while Nia points out all the best cafés, the library, a handful of greenhouses, and the apothecary that sells creams to make one’s skin as smooth as butter.

The sloped-roof homes blend seamlessly with one another like a tiny mountain range. Then there are the houses built in trees that look as if they sprouted roots of their own. Imagine living in a tree house, with birds roosting outside your window, singing you awake every morning.

Sounds heavenly.

Friendly smiles abound, with most people either bobbing their heads or waving at Nia as we pass. The men sport fancy, multi-colored cravats and bow ties. Some even wear top hats. The women twirl lacy parasols over their shoulders, shielding their milky skin from the blazing sun.

And the fashion.

I’ve never seen so many different patterns of fabric.

Nia nods her chin toward two women strolling arm-in-arm across the street. “See that pink dress? Not the light one, the dark one. That’s a Madame Ella.” She inclines her head toward the burbling fountain in the square. “And the tangerine-colored one over there? That’s a Madame Ella as well. She only uses the highest quality fabrics, and no two are alike. Other dresses wear you, but in a Madame Ella, you wear the dress.”

“And you think this woman will be willing to make a dress for me?” By the sounds of it, the designer must be in high demand. What if she’s too busy to take a commission? What if she costs a fortune? I brought a decent amount of money, but I’ll need to pay for other things while I’m here too.