11
FIANNA SWEPT TENDRILS of hair from her face with the back of her hand. On her other wrist, she wore a red pincushion, which held an assortment of steel-head pins. She’d spent the day marking and pinning and cutting. White satin, silk, and tulle formed a fluffy mound in the corner of her mother’s sewing room. She felt like a sculptor, whittling away the excess to find the true work of art within.
Davina sat beside the window, which was speckled with afternoon raindrops. She was sipping tea in a thin china cup imprinted with the Fitzgerald crest in red. They’d been discussing details about the fashion show. “Are you absolutely certain the trunks with your collection arrived?”
“I checked this morning. The hotel received them, and now they’re locked in storage. But I’ll have to open the
