POV: Amelia
The pattern maker’s workshop smelled like chalk and steam, and I liked it immediately, the way I’d liked Marchetti’s, the way I’d liked Belrose. No glamour. Just work.
Renata had sent me to a woman named Ines, who ran the place out of a converted garage two streets from her old boutique, and who spent the first twenty minutes of our meeting saying almost nothing at all while she pinned muslin against a dress form, adjusting, stepping back, adjusting again.
“Your shoulder seam’s too far forward,” she said finally. “It’ll pull when she raises her arm.”
“I drew it that way for the line.”
“The line doesn’t matter if the woman can’t reach for her coffee without the whole thing dragging.” She moved the pin half an inch. “There. Now the line still works, and she can move.”
I mad
