“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I’m afraid I have a list full of orders already. Why don’t you try somewhere else?”

That was all I heard, on repeat, all morning from every dressmaker, seamstress, and sewer in town. Even the cart vendors wouldn’t give me a second glance. They kept their distance, speaking to the air rather than risk speaking to me.

The ball – something everyone wouldn’t stop talking about – was less than four months away, and I still didn’t have a dress. Nothing commissioned, nothing in progress, and Buckley had been aghast when I suggested wearing a gown I already owned.

“We could try McPhillips again?” she said as we wandered the crowded streets.

“Buckley, we’ve been in town for hours. I think it’s more than clear by now that nobody is willing to work with me.”

I let out a slow breath. Around us, the streets bustled with men and women carrying parcels of fine fabrics and finished garments, laughing as they imagined the grand night ahead.

“Why is this happening?” I asked, sinking onto a streetside bench. “I thought after that display of gifts…”

“I don’t wish to gossip, My Lady, but…” Buckley leaned closer. “I would guess it’s due to Lady Fabienne. She’s one of the few who could send people scurrying like this. Especially because of her father.”

“Well, I didn’t give up then, and I refuse to let her win now.”

I stood, “Is there anyone else you know? Anyone at all who could make me a dress?”

Buckley hesitated. “There is one woman.”

She led me through quieter streets toward a sizable home near the castle grounds. Not grand, but solid – practical. 

Buckley knocked. After a moment, the door opened.

A tall, weathered black woman stood in the doorway, graceful in her age. She looked stronger than most men – most knights – I had ever seen. Her gaze lingered on me, wary but not unkind, then softened at the sight of Buckley.

“Buckley, dear. You know I don’t like the polished kind near my home.”

“I know,” Buckley said gently. “But she’s a good one. This is Princess Vivian Darnel of the Eastern Kingdom. And this is Ms. Whitmore – former Captain of the Guard.”

Ms. Whitmore bowed, “Please. Come in.”

She led us into a sitting room warmed by a hand-crafted fireplace. We took our seats, hers by the fire as she tended it. 

“How can I be of service?”

“I need a gown for the upcoming ball. Buckley praised your talents, and I hoped you might be willing to make one for me.”

“I appreciate the praise,” she said evenly, “but whatever I make would pale beside the work of the city’s established dressmakers. In the eyes of the rich, at least.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“And you still want me to do it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I glanced at Buckley. She gave a small, encouraging nod.

“If I’m being honest, Lady Fabienne has taken quite a dislike to me. There doesn’t seem to be a single seamstress in town willing to offend her.”

“So you came to me.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who would back down at the sound of a name.”

A corner of her mouth twitched. “Flattery. But not untrue.”

The front door opened in the other room.

“Mum? Edric’s asking for help with the new recruits. Something about—”

Liam stepped into the doorway and stopped short when he saw us.

“Oh. Princess. I didn’t realize you were here.”

He gave a quick, slightly stiff bow.

“Ms. Whitmore is your mother?” I asked.

“Yes, Your Highness.” He glanced at Ms. Whitmore. “She’s the one I mentioned. The woman who helped get me out of that tree.”

Ms. Whitmore’s jaw tightened just slightly.

“You didn’t tell me Her Highness was the one,” she said, exhaling through her nose. Then she looked at me. “Thank you. And my apologies. Liam can be… overly independent.”

“It’s perfectly fine,” I said quickly.

An awkward silence settled until Ms. Whitmore broke it.

“I’ll make it. The dress.”

“You will?” 

Relief rushed through me so suddenly I nearly felt lightheaded.

“Yes. Liam, fetch my sketch pad.”

He disappeared into the next room and returned moments later, handing it to her.

She sat, quill poised. “Tell me what you want.”

“Well….”

“I can make anything,” she said. “Just name it.”

I was supposed to resemble Vivian. Dress like her, think like her, act like her. But surely even a princess could change things up now and then.

“I want something with short sleeves. Nothing frilly or heavily layered. Simple in shape… but beautiful in its craftsmanship. Embroidery.”

“That’s a start.”

We spent the next hour refining details until she finally turned the pad around.

There it was.

A blue gown embroidered with silver thread, flowing across the bodice and trailing along the hem. The sleeves wrapped the upper arm in a simple, thick band. Elegant without excess.

“That’s beautiful,” Buckley breathed. “You’ll shine in it, My Lady.”

“Yeah,” Liam said, nodding. “It’s good work, Mum.”

“Thank you,” Ms. Whitmore said, a quiet pride in her voice. “And you’ll want sturdy shoes. If you plan on dancing all night.”

“Of course,” I leaned toward Buckley and whispered, “I need to write to my father.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Just to keep him in the know.”

And to beg Collins to teach me how to dance before this ball arrives.