My mother called immediately after the organizers notified Sienna that her presentation had been placed on hold. I knew because she didn't bother to say hello.
"What have you done?" she demanded.
"I've asked them to check who made the dress."
"You have embarrassed your sister in front of important people."
"She entered my design as hers."
"Sienna was going to help you later. Don't you understand anything about opportunity?"
I thought of all the times later had been promised to me: later I'd get my own room, later I'd have money for school, later my mother would have time to look at my portfolio. Later had become a place where every promise could be left untouched forever.
"I understand that my name belongs on my work," I said.
My mother went silent. Then she told me that if I continued, I might need to find somewhere else to live. The threat struck hard because she knew precisely how little money I had saved. For a moment I couldn't speak. Evelyn, sitting across the table, must have seen my expression; she held out her hand for the phone.
"Marianne," she said when I passed it over, "your daughter is welcome in my spare room until she finds a place of her own. Please don't mistake her kindness for helplessness."
My mother hung up.
I stared at Evelyn in amazement. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," she replied. "That's why it matters."
That night, I slept on a narrow bed in Evelyn's guest room beneath a quilt that smelled faintly of lavender. I was frightened of what would happen next. I was also relieved to discover that fear and relief could live inside the same person without one canceling the other. For the first time in months, no one was going to wake me by knocking on the door and asking for a favor before sunrise.
The provenance review took place in a quiet conference room above the exhibition hall. Helena Ward sat at the head of a long table with two technical judges and a production coordinator. Imani came with me, carrying the portfolio. Evelyn arrived separately with a box of fabric samples and the small muslin test bodice she had insisted I keep instead of throwing away.
Sienna was already there when we entered. She wore a tailored cream jacket and sat beside our mother with her arms folded tightly. The sight of them together made my stomach twist, but I kept walking. Neither looked pleased to see Evelyn. My mother had dismissed her for months as "that old sewing woman" because she worked out of a modest house and cared more about hems than social invitations.
Helena began by explaining that no one would be allowed to handle the disputed garment without supervision. Both applicants would be heard. The judges weren't there to decide whose feelings mattered more. They needed to know who had originated the design and who had carried out its construction, because the competition's rules required a truthful description of authorship.