My mother saw me from across the room. She was standing near the runway in her camel wrap, holding a glass of champagne. She went pale and turned away.
Graham saw me next. He was by the fountain, in a white dinner jacket, talking to two men in suits. He stopped mid-sentence.
He came toward me fast through the crowd.
“Jules,” he said, low. “You can’t be here. Please. Tonight is Sienna’s night. Don’t do this to her.”
“I was invited,” I said. “By your mother.”
His face went blank.
“My mother?”
“Ask her,” I said. “She’s right behind you.”
Eleanor Whitaker had appeared at his elbow, in pale gray silk and a long strand of pearls.
“Graham,” she said pleasantly. “Go and find your seat. The show’s about to begin.”
He looked at her. Then at me. Then he went and found his seat.
The lights dimmed. The cellist stopped. Music swelled from the speakers, something soft and French, and the first model stepped out onto the white runway.
The collection was fine. I want to be fair to my sister. Some of the gowns were pretty.
Ordinary, but pretty. Tulle, mostly. A lot of lace she’d bought by the yard.
Nothing anybody would remember tomorrow. Twelve gowns. Then the music changed.
The lights went down to a single white spotlight at the head of the runway. And Sienna stepped out. In my gown.
My lilies glittered under the spotlight. My seed pearls caught every flash. The silk crepe moved around her like water, because I had cut the bias myself, by hand, over three nights in February.
The whole conservatory drew in its breath. It really was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever made. Sienna walked the length of the runway slowly, with her chin up, glowing, while the cameras fired like rain.
At the end, by the fountain, she stopped. Someone handed her a microphone. Graham stood up from the front row and came to stand beside her, and took her hand.
“Thank you,” Sienna said, and her voice trembled beautifully. “Thank you all so much for being here tonight. This gown is called The Rose. It’s the most personal thing I’ve ever designed.” She touched the lilies on her bodice. “My grandmother taught me to sew when I was a little girl. Lily of the valley was her favorite flower. Every single stitch on this gown is for her.” She smiled up at Graham. “And next month, on June seventh, I’m going to wear it right here, in this glasshouse, when I marry the love of my life.”
The room burst into applause. My mother was crying. Graham kissed Sienna’s hand.
And Eleanor Whitaker, in the front row, set down her champagne glass and stood up.
“How lovely,” she said.
She didn’t need a microphone. Eleanor Whitaker has never needed a microphone. The applause faded.
“As your lead investor, Sienna, I’ve been asked to say a few words tonight,” Eleanor said. “So I will. I’d like to ask you a question about your gown.”
Sienna’s smile wobbled.
“Of course, Mrs. Whitaker.”
“You said every stitch was for your grandmother.” Eleanor turned and looked at me. “Juliet. Would you tell everyone how many stitches there are?”
Every head in the glasshouse turned. I walked forward to the edge of the runway, in my midnight-blue silk. Sienna saw me.
The color drained from her face so fast I thought she might fall.
“About two hundred and ten thousand,” I said. “I counted the first ten thousand. After that, I just counted the hours. Four hundred and six.”
A murmur rolled through the crowd.
“Jules,” Sienna whispered. “Don’t.”
“My sister didn’t design that gown,” I said to the room. “I did. I started sketching it two years ago. I embroidered every lily by hand, at Atelier Fontaine, where I’ve been a partner for three years.” Theo stepped up beside me and handed copies to the editors in the front row. “Those are my dated sketches. The workroom photographs. And the copyright registration for the embroidery design, filed ten months ago, in my name.”
“She’s lying,” Sienna said into the microphone. Her voice cracked. “She’s jealous. She’s always been jealous. Mom, tell them.”
Everyone looked at my mother. My mother didn’t say anything. She was staring at the gown.
“That gown was stolen from the vault at Atelier Fontaine at eleven-fifteen last night,” Odile Fontaine said, from beside me, in her low French voice that carries like a bell. “There is a video.”
The murmur became a roar. Graham let go of Sienna’s hand.
“It’s not stolen!” Sienna said. “It’s mine! I designed it! Every stitch!”
“Then you know what’s in the lining,” I said.
Silence.
