She follows, thankfully.
“If it’s just the zip, they’ll fix it.”
“It ripped,” I say again, more forcefully as we reach the reception desk. “I’ll be taking this,” I tell the clerk, holding out the dress.
She accepts it, folds it neatly into a bag, and hands it to me. I reach for my card loaded with rubles, but she shakes her head.
“Oh, Miss Katya already paid for this,” she says with a practiced smile.
“Who?” I blink at her. Suddenly English feels like a foreign language.
“The lady you were shopping with,” the clerk explains. Then she pulls out another bag. “She also said this would fit you better.”
I hesitate, but Serena snatches the bag before I can react. She opens it, eyes bulging. “What?”
She pulls out a breathtaking dress, floor-length, off-shoulder, midnight-blue satin with a
