Zada closed her eyes briefly, trying to will away the wave of disappointment that crashed over her as she regarded herself. The dress was ridiculous, a complex architecture of draping and flounces, covered in enough ruffles that it could have just as easily formed an entire second gown.
“It’s, um.” Zada searched for a phrase that wasn’tabsolutely horrendous. “Nice.”
“You’re very lucky, you know,” Mx. Beauchamp called. “We just updated the analytical model that we use. Your dress is perfectly optimized to suit your looks.”
From the other side of the screen came two light knocks. “May I come in?” said Daphne. “Are you decent?”
“Extremely,” said Zada and Daphne joined her in the cramped space.
“Beauchamp’s watching me,” Daphne mouthed. Out loud, she said, “Hmm, your thoughts?”
“I look like a lamp.” Belatedly, Zada remembered that Mx. Beauchamp was listening in. She added, “A very beautiful one.But I think I’d prefer something with less—” Zada gestured at the fountain of ruffles.
“Sleeker?” Daphne suggested.
“Simpler,” Zada agreed.
“Sophisticated,” said Daphne. “Less is more and all that.”
“I have another mock-up you could try,” said Mx. Beauchamp. They coughed tactfully. “But it won’t hang as well on your shape.”
“I’ll try it,” Zada said firmly, her face burning at the implied insult. Zada stood on her tiptoes to retrieve the new dress from over the screen. Even holding it in her hands, she could already tell it had a more pared-down silhouette. She started undoing the buttons that ran down her side, ready to shed this mathematically perfect monstrosity.
Daphne froze. “I’ll just duck out for a moment. You, uh, take your time. Changing.” There was an odd note in her voice. If this was Daphne attempting to act cool and natural as she removed herself for some skullduggery—well, Zada had notes.
Alone again, Zada yanked off the ruffled mass of white and draped it over the screen. Then she carefully slipped on the new dress. She breathed out, twisting to one side and then the other. The far simpler skirt swirled lightly after her, a waterfall of light fabric with an understated floral pattern in rose gold. The neckline plunged a little too low for comfort, but other than that—
“I love it,” Zada breathed. The numbers on the margins of the mirror blurred as she stared at herself.
On the other side of the screen, Mx. Beauchamp was saying, “So, Daphne, when do you suppose I’ll be working onyour gown? I’ve had a sample in the back room since you turned eighteen.”
“Maybe sooner rather than later,” Daphne murmured politely. Apparently, she hadn’t managed to sneak away.
“We found the perfect color for you,” Mx. Beauchamp continued. “A lesser dressmaker might pick a shade of white that makes your skin look sallow, but I guarantee you’ll look ravishing in this ecru.”
“I know,” said Daphne. “I’ve seen the pictures, what you made for my mother.”
At that, Mx. Beauchamp burst into a fit of coughs. When they recovered, they said, “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never had the privilege of working with your family before, I’m afraid. I’m simply honored to have the opportunity to dress a direct descendant of one of the Founders.”
“Right,” Daphne muttered. “My mistake.”
Zada couldn’t bear to listen any longer. She stepped out from behind the screen with some half-formed wish to redirect the conversation.
Daphne turned and then went unaccountably still. “There it is,” she said softly. “The glow.” And perhaps Zada was imagining it, but Daphne sounded almost admiring. Their gazes met in one of the many mirrors lining the walls. Zada felt her cheeks heat at Daphne’s regard. This was a disaster.
Zada cleared her throat. “I’ll take this one, please.”
“If you’re absolutely sure,” said Beauchamp, brow furrowing. “Only, according to our analysis—”
“I’m certain,” Zada repeated.
“Give her the dress, Mx. Beauchamp,” Daphne said. “Or are you in the business of ignoring the desires of your customers?”
“I would never dream of it,” Mx. Beauchamp said smoothly. They immediately began fussing with the fit of the dress, muttering to themself about taking up the hem another half inch and adjusting the shoulders.
“And perhaps slightly more fabric at the neckline?” Zada suggested.
“Like a ruffle?” said Mx. Beauchamp, raising their head hopefully. “A series of ruffles, perhaps?”
