"Hold still," said the seamstress, a small, fierce woman named Pilar with a mouth full of pins and absolutely no patience for fidgeting brides. "One more minute and I am finished with the hem."
"I'm holding still."
"You are holding still like a woman thinking about running out that door." She nodded toward the fitting room's entrance without taking the pins from her mouth. "I have dressed forty brides. I know the difference between nerves and doubt."
"Which one is this?"
Pilar looked up at me properly for the first time, sharp dark eyes taking in whatever it was she thought she saw. "That," she said, "is for you to know, not me."
I said nothing to that, because I did not entirely trust myself to answer honestly, and Pilar, apparently satisfied with my silence as an answer in itself, w
