By June, the spare room had become a garden of fabric. Pink thread wound around chair legs. Paper patterns covered the floor. Each petal had to be cut, shaped, and attached individually, and every time I lifted the dress from its padded hanger, I saw another little imperfection nobody else would notice. My mother called the mess an embarrassment whenever visitors came. Sienna called it my "little costume corner," a phrase she used even after I explained that the bodice alone had taken more than eighty hours.
They were not completely indifferent at first. Sienna sometimes appeared in my doorway with a glass of iced tea and asked to see my progress. Once she put on a pair of white gloves and helped me turn the skirt so I could examine the drape. I remember that evening painfully clearly because I had been happy to share something with her. She took photographs of the flowers, called them incredible, and told me I should stop hiding my talent. I thought she was finally starting to see me.
In August, she asked if she could borrow the finished gown for a photo shoot when it was ready. I told her I wanted to submit it to the Aurora competition myself. Her face changed so quickly that I wondered if I had imagined it.
"Aurora?" she said. "That's for designers with industry connections, Talia. You need people who can put you in a room."
"I know. I'm trying anyway."
"I'm just saying you should be realistic."
She went downstairs, and an hour later my mother informed me that Sienna had a "proper professional opportunity" coming up and that I ought to help her prepare. I said I would, as long as it didn't interfere with my dress. My mother gave me the look she used when she wanted me to feel selfish without having to say the word.
The next few months passed in a blur of needlework. One night I discovered the silk had puckered along the back zipper because I'd used the wrong tension. I sat on the floor for nearly an hour, staring at the mistake, before I took out the stitches and began again. Another night the bead supplier canceled an order, and I drove forty miles to buy replacement crystals from a store that was closing. The owner gave me the last two packets at a discount when I showed him a photograph of what I was making. I wrote his name in my notebook because I wanted to remember that a stranger had taken my dream seriously.
During those months, Sienna's online posts became increasingly mysterious. She wrote about "the collection that's going to change everything" and "a very special piece in the works." I assumed she was speaking about a new boutique idea. She asked unusual questions about my fabric sources and how many hours I had spent on the gown. Once she borrowed my sketchbook while I was showering. When I found it on her bed, she said she had only wanted to show my drawings to a friend who worked in fashion.