Nia comes to a stop outside a building with a cherry-red door. Colorful pansies spill from the low window boxes, a splash of color against gray stone and glass. “There’s only one way to find out,” she says, swinging the door aside.

Madame Ella’s salon is as bright and colorful as the marbles I used to play with as a child. Fabrics of all colors and patterns drape from the walls, swathe dress forms, and hang like banners from the ceiling.

High-quality, indeed. The prints are some of the most intricate I’ve ever seen.

Where did she find such beautiful cloth? And would you look at all that lace? There must be over a hundred spools.

The unmistakable click clack of heels on stones drifts from the back of the establishment, followed by a sultry voice. “I’m afraid we have no more appointments today. You’ll have to come back another time.” A woman emerges from between two dress forms, gold bangles stacked on her wrists and colorful gemstones sparkling on her fingers.

When she sees us, she sucks in a breath, and her hand flies to her ruby lips.

Nia curtsys like the woman is the queen herself. “Good afternoon, Madame Ella. I’m not sure if you remember me. My name is Nia Quill. You made the dress I wore for my fifteenth birthday.”

Madame Ella’s gaze flicks to my cousin. “Emerald chiffon with a velvet trim, correct?”

Nia beams. “That’s right.” She grabs my hand. “I was telling my cousin what a brilliant designer you are. She just arrived from Gravale this afternoon, and⁠—”

“Gravale, you say?” Madame Ella steps closer, squinting at me as if searching for the hole at the top of a very small needle. “You aren’t by chance related to Celeste Hanson, are you?”

I force a smile even as my eyes start to burn. “Celeste was my mother.”

“Remarkable,” she murmurs with a shake of her head, sending her auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders. “The two of you could have been twins.”

Everyone in our village said the same thing, and I loved and hated it in equal measure. To look in the mirror and see the person you miss most in the world staring back is a special kind of torture.

“What brings you down from the mountains?” she asks.

“Husbands.”

Her eyes widen. “Surely, you’re not already twenty-five.”

“I will be in a few weeks.”

Nia squeezes my fingers. “I know that you don’t usually take walk-ins, but given your connection, I thought perhaps you might be willing to make an exception? All she has are her mother’s ruffled dresses from thirty years ago.” She gestures to my current ensemble, and the unease that had evaporated returns full force.

“Yes, well, ruffles were in fashion back when I made those gowns,” Madame Ella says with the smallest smile.

“You made this dress?” I don’t believe it.