Faye
Queen Emory walks around the circular platform where I’m standing, trying not to move an inch. A seamstress and tailor shuffle around me on their knees, pinning the hem of what will eventually be a wedding dress meant to cause envy, I think.
Emory watches their progress like a hawk as she comes to a rest a few feet away before turning to face the table where sketches of the dress and fabric samples are laid out in droves, covering the entire surface.
“What’s your favorite color, Faye?” she asks, lifting some of the fabric samples to peer at the other options underneath. Everything, so far, are shades of white–cream, alabaster, egg shell…
“Pink,” I reply, smiling at her through my reflection in the full length mirror.
She smiles to herself, absently nodding. “I had a hunch. Wel
