Sienna spoke first. She told them she'd conceived the gown as a tribute to feminine strength. She described its color as "the resilience of a rose after rain" and said she had overseen the embroidery process with assistance from family. Her voice was smooth, her gestures graceful. If I hadn't lived through the construction, I might have believed her myself.
One judge asked what method she'd used to keep the flowers from dragging the bodice forward. Sienna blinked. She said the lining was reinforced, then looked toward me as if I were supposed to supply the rest. The judge waited. My sister added that she had worked with a seamstress on the technical parts, and that she considered design a collaborative art.
Helena turned to me. "Miss Monroe, would you like to respond?"
I opened my pattern book to the page where I'd redrawn the interior supports four times. I explained the concealed waist stay, the graded placement of the flower clusters, and why I'd changed the understructure after the first fitting. Then I placed the muslin test bodice on the table. There were pencil marks on its inside seams and tiny holes where I'd moved the support tape before deciding on its final position.
The technical judge picked it up, turned it carefully, and said, "This corresponds to the method used in your photographs. Do you have the original design files as well?"
"Yes," I answered. My hands were shaking, but my voice wasn't. "And there's something inside the gown I can show you if you allow me to handle it."
They had brought the dress in a protective garment case. It was the first time I'd seen it since Sienna carried it from my room. A single flower near the side seam had loosened. I could tell which one immediately, because I remembered the thread I had used there and the bead I'd watched roll away. My throat tightened, but I kept my hands at my sides until Helena gave permission.
I laid the gown faceup on the clean worktable and lifted the left edge of the hem. Under the facing was the hand-finished opening that looked, to an untrained eye, like an ordinary fold. I slipped two fingers inside and drew out the narrow silk band. One by one, seven tiny embroidered roses appeared, followed by the stitched words beneath them.
*Talia Monroe. Second Sunrise — original design.*
Nobody spoke. Then Imani quietly placed the dated photograph of that same band beside it. The judge compared the stitches in the image with the stitches before her. Evelyn pointed out the deliberate change in thread shade beneath the fourth rose, a correction I'd made on a rainy Monday while she watched. My personal mark was not proof by magic; it was one more physical detail that matched a trail of records from months before Sienna's public claim.
Helena photographed the band and asked a coordinator to document the gown's condition. She thanked us and said the committee needed time to complete its comparison. I wanted her to announce the truth on the spot, but I understood why she didn't. Fairness was the thing I had asked for. I had to allow them to practice it.