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“Miss Norling’s paying you,” I said. “And she wants red.” How absurd this all was. I couldn’t imagine telling a customer they should choose a yellow spinning top if orange was what they wanted.

With a huff, Mrs. Andersson pulled a bolt of red wool from the shelf. She placed it on the counter, nearly throwing it down. She grew ever frostier as Lilja chose ribbons and buttons and answered questions about cuts and seams.

“Now for the measurements,” she said, pointing one of those thin fingers at the door at the back of the shop. “The fitting room is this way.”

Lilja followed her, and I did too, but at the door, Mrs. Andersson turned to me. “Are you sure you should come inside?” she asked, frowning at my pants and shirt—as if they made me a man.

“I want her to come,” Lilja said, and she looked so frightened now that I found it in me to ignore Mrs. Andersson’s disdain.

“Then I shall come,” I said.

The fitting room was small, with no window, but on the wall hung a large oval mirror in a gilded frame. I leaned against the doorframe, staying out of the way.

“Take off the shawl, the mantle, and the dress,” Mrs. Andersson said to Lilja.

Lilja’s eyes in the mirror grew wide. “I… I like to stay modest.”

“You’ll still have on your chemise and petticoats.”

“But I… I…”

“Don’t be silly now, little Miss Norling. Take it off.”

Lilja’s eyes welled with tears.

“Surely you can take the measurements on the outside of her dress then subtract an inch or so?” I said.

Mrs. Andersson sniffed. “The fit won’t be as exact.”

“That’s all right,” Lilja said. “I won’t mind.”

With a theatrical sigh, Mrs. Andersson relented. I watched as she set to work with her measuring tape. Lilja obeyed the order to stand up straight and lift her arms. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were still reddened from the frost and her hair curled at her temples, damp from the snow. She was so beautiful, but the deep sadness in her expression made my throat tight with unexpected tears.

The weather hadn’t improved, and when we stepped outside, those pricking snowflakes assaulted us. “You’ll look lovely in red,” I said as we set off toward home. It wasn’t a day for a leisurely stroll and a chat, but I didn’t feel I could let what had happened in Mrs. Andersson’s shop go unspoken.

“You think so?”

“I do. Don’t you?”

She pulled her shawl up so it covered her ears and it looked as if she shrugged, but I couldn’t be sure with all the layers she was wearing.

“Did Mrs. Andersson make you sad?” I asked.

Lilja shook her head. “I don’t care what she thinks of me. It’s just that I hardly recognized myself in the mirror. I used to look different.”

“What do you mean?”

“I… I used to be a different sort of person.”

“Not as somber?”

She nodded. “Something like that.”

I took her arm like she had to me that day on Mr. Jonsson’s wagon. “The red will look very pretty on you. I know it. I might not know much about dresses, but I know colors as well as Mrs. Andersson.”

She smiled up at me. “You do.”

“You’re cold,” I said because her lips had turned blue. She nodded, her teeth chattering. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “Is this better?”