Along the bottom of the skirt and its slight train, ran another row of the twisted green trimming, as did the waist, though there were three rows of it. Those rows came together at the back and flowed freely over the small bustle, just past the end of the small train. The precision of her stitching was as fine, if not better, than anything from Worth. It was art—art I would wear.
From the ribbons encircling the waist, Ginevra had brought them upward vertically, striping the bodice. Where the bodice ended in a scoop neck, the ribbons continued, on their own, meant to lay against my skin. They gathered together, connected to a choker made of three rows of the pink lace. I had never seen anything like it, not on any woman or in any magazine.
“Ginevra!” I gave a whispered shout. “It is…you a
