The shears felt like a natural extension of my hand, a cold, weighted certainty in the echoing silence. Julian’s face, contorted with a mix of defiance and dawning horror, was the last thing I focused on before I turned my back on him completely.
I walked towards the petrified model on the dais. She was young, barely out of her teens, her eyes wide with fear. I gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod. *It’s not about you,* the look said. *Stay still.*
She did.
I reached for the hem of the Icarus Gown. The fabric, a cheap silk charmeuse he’d substituted for the Italian double-faced satin I’d specified, felt flimsy and sad beneath my fingers.
“Every artisan has a tell,” I announced, my voice resonating with a lecturer’s clarity. “A potter leaves a thumbprint in the clay. A painter has
