On the night of May first, the gown disappeared from the vault. Margot called me at six in the morning. She was crying.

“The code was changed, Ms. Hale. I swear it. I changed it myself, that Sunday night. But Chloe was standing behind me when I typed it.” She drew a shaky breath. “Chloe didn’t come in today. Her phone’s off. And the security camera on the back door shows her letting someone in at eleven-fifteen last night. A woman in a black hoodie. Carrying a garment bag.”

I knew who it was. I didn’t have to see the hoodie. I drove straight to the atelier.

Theo was very calm on the phone.

“Ms. Hale,” he said, “I want you to understand something. This is the best thing that could possibly have happened.”

Behind me, Odile was standing in front of the open vault, staring at the empty hanger.

“Chérie,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“She stole my wedding gown, Theo.”

“Yes,” he said. “And tonight, she’s going to wear it. In front of three hundred people and every fashion editor in Bellmare. And call it hers.” I heard him smile. “Wear something beautiful. And bring the photographs of the lining.”

The Ashcombe Glasshouse sits on the crest of a hill above Bellmare, a Victorian conservatory of white iron and glass, three stories tall, built by a railroad baron for his wife in 1889.

That night, it glowed like a jewel box. Hundreds of white orchids hung from the iron rafters on invisible threads, so they seemed to float.

Crystal chandeliers dripped light down onto a long white runway that ran the length of the conservatory, past the old marble fountain in the center. Waiters in white jackets carried trays of champagne. A cellist played under a palm tree.

Three hundred guests in evening wear. Photographers along the runway, their cameras flashing. Fashion editors in the front row.

I walked in at eight o’clock, in a column gown of midnight-blue silk that Odile had cut for me that afternoon, with Odile on one side of me in black velvet and Theo on the other in a tuxedo and a crimson bow tie.

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.”