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“A friend of mine thought you might have a Wendy costume,” Isla said.

“Wendy? As in Peter Pan’s Wendy?”

“Yes. It’s for a work costume party, and she feels rather strongly that I wear a light-blue nightgown.”

“I see.” Mrs. McQuivey had yet to drop her gaze. Her eyes were hazel, Isla noticed, and had an unusual sparkle. “And how do you feel about that?”

Surprised by the question, Isla shrugged. “I don’t feel quite as passionately about the color of Wendy’s pajamas as Chloe does, but I’m happy to wear a light-blue nightie if I can find one.”

Mrs. McQuivey nodded thoughtfully. “Putting the desires of others before your own is an admirable trait.”

“Oh, but I really don’t mind.” Isla smiled. “It’s hard to complain about wearing comfortable pajamas to a work party.”

“True,” Mrs. McQuivey said. “Although, being uncomfortable isn’t always a bad thing. After all, that’s often when we’re called upon to show courage and fortitude.”

Isla received the distinct impression that Mrs. McQuivey was referring to something more significant than painful shoes or tight clothes, but it seemed best not to ask.

“You’re probably right,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure of it. I’ve seen it happen time and time again.” A slight frown appeared on Mrs. McQuivey’s brow. “Forgive me for being presumptuous,” she said, “but are you quite sure you want a Wendy costume? I would have thought you’d prefer to wear something historical.”

Puzzled, Isla glanced at her own clothing. Sensible black flats, black trousers, a cream-and-sage-green floral blouse, and a gray cardigan. She wasn’t wearing anything terribly dated. Her ensemble was work attire at its unremarkable finest. As far as Isla could tell, there was nothing that might give away her love of the past. “Why would you say that?”

“Oh, just a feeling I have.” The older lady started toward the nearest rack of clothing. “I’ve discovered that occasionally, people come to the shop in search of entirely the wrong thing.”

“The wrong thing?” Why would Mrs. McQuivey think she could possibly know what someone else needed?

“Completely and utterly.” She tutted as though the concept were ridiculous. “Only two days ago, I had a gentleman come in wanting a policeman’s uniform.” With a shake of her head, she drew a hanger out from between its tightly packed neighbors and held up an elegant navy jacket, tan breeches, and crisp white shirt and cravat. “He was much better suited to be a Georgian gentleman than he was to be a London Bobby.”

“Did he change his mind, then?” Isla asked.

“Of course. When you find the clothes meant for you, there’s really no helping it.”

Isla eyed the outfit wistfully. If Chloe had chosen a Georgian theme, Dave could have dressed up in these clothes rather than a Captain Hook costume, and Isla could have worn her Regency gown again. “I do love historical costumes,” she admitted, “but I’m afraid this time it needs to be a Wendy costume. My colleagues are planning on me wearing it.”

Mrs. McQuivey nodded absently, replaced the gentleman’s clothing, and continued along the rack to a section filled with long gowns. She slowed, her fingers brushing against the fabric, a pensive look on her face. She reached for a hanger, went to pull it out, and then shook her head. “No,” she muttered. “Not that one.”

Isla waited. She wasn’t sure what the older lady was looking for. She hoped it was the Wendy nightgown, but she’d not spotted anything that looked remotely like a Disney costume on that particular rack. “Would you like me to help look?” Isla asked.

“No, no.” Mrs. McQuivey slid a few hangers along the rack. None of them resembled a nightie. None of them was light blue. “I shall find it, my dear.”

Isla tightened her grip on the strap of her purse. Perhaps coming here hadn’t been the best idea after all. “Would you like me to come back tomorrow?”

“Goodness me. That won’t be necessary. I shall find just what you need in no time.” She slid three more hangers down the rack, and then her fingers stilled. “There now.” A satisfied expression settled on her face, and she withdrew a cream-colored gown covered in embroidered flowers. “What do you think of this?”

“It’s beautiful.” The elegant gown wasn’t at all what she was here for, but Isla couldn’t help but reach out to touch the shimmering silk. “Is it Elizabethan?”

“Well done.” Mrs. McQuivey appeared impressed. “Late Elizabethan or early Jacobean, I’d say. Early 1600s, for sure. You see how the sleeves are narrow rather than the padded leg-of-mutton sleeves they wore a few decades before then?”

“Yes,” Isla said. “The narrower sleeves are an improvement, but a gown like this must have been so hard to put on and so heavy to wear all day.” She fingered the long-waisted stays that tapered to a point at the front. “They wore farthingales, too, didn’t they?”

“Absolutely. The circular hoops were sewn into the underskirt to give their skirts the desired shape.”

Isla shook her head. “I wouldn’t know how to begin dressing myself. No wonder so many women relied on lady’s maids to help them.”

“I’m quite sure you’d sort it out quickly enough.” She handed Isla the gown. “Here. Try it on and see for yourself. I’ll fetch you a chemise and a farthingale.”

“Oh, no, I—” Isla attempted to hand the gown back, but Mrs. McQuivey had already turned to face the rack behind them and was pulling underclothing off the hangers.