The bell above the shop door chimed softly as I stepped inside, shutting out the brittle bite of a London winter afternoon. My gloves still held the faint chill of the street, and the warmth here seemed almost indecent in comparison — rich with the scent of fabric, beeswax polish, and a hint of lavender starch. I had been here before, of course, though always in my mother’s company, trailing two steps behind her as she discussed silk weights and sleeve fashions with the dressmaker. I had been the quiet daughter then — dutiful, composed, and forgettable — content to observe from a corner while my mind wandered elsewhere.

But my mother was in Bath for the season, and I… I had found a reason to come alone.

From somewhere in the back came the muted sound of shears slicing through cloth. Then she emerged — Guest Harrow — sleeves rolled above her elbows, a scatter of pins caught in her hair, and the faintest trace of chalk across her fingers. It was the sort of image I ought not have noticed in detail, yet somehow it lodged itself in my mind before I could think better of it. I adjusted my posture, forcing my voice into its most measured tone.

The words sounded far more casual than I felt. I had no shortage of gowns. I did not need another. And yet, the thought of standing here, with her attending to the line of my shoulders and the measure of my waist, had proved… difficult to ignore.