The dress had been her mother’s, and it fit better than Emily would have expected. It wasn’t white, but that creamy champagne color that worked well when your skin was too pale to get away with real white. A neckline of beads shimmered over her collarbone, and the skirt, crafted from layers of light fabric, floated around her like a dream.
It was, she had to admit, exactly the kind of dress she would have picked out for herself. She took a turn in front of the full-length mirror and watched the fabric move.
“Good god,” her father whispered. “You look just like her.”
Emily ran her hands over the hips of her gown, settling it back into place. “It’s surprisingly perfect.”
Her father wheeled into the room, flanked by two men she didn’t recognize, at least not immediately. One was so tall a
