When she pulled the front door open there was a short, stout woman with silver hair and round rosy cheeks.

“Mrs. Potts?” Nya asked before she could stop herself.

“Non. I am Madame Flemard, the modiste?” The woman’s arms were wrapped around several items of clothing and her eyes scanned Nya’s body. “Yes, yes, yes. Perfection!”

“Pardon me?” Nya stepped back into the room as Madame Flemard stalked toward her, eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t I supposed to come to you?”

“I was here at the castle and brought a couple of things I wanted you to try.” She was already laying a few pieces on the couch in the room. “I have just the thing. I still follow the trends, you know, and I was given this beautiful print last time the delegation from Thesolo was here. I made this outfit, but there is no one here to wear it! It’s not like it can fit—” Madame Flemard pressed her lips together and looked around. “Ahem. Yes. Would you like to try on a dress? I will not be offended if you don’t like it, and I have other dresses. We can have pants tailored, anything you wish.”

“I do love trying on dresses, and I have nothing to wear to the opera,” Nya said. “I need to look . . . I need to feel very sure of myself. Like, you know, in the films when the heroine gets a makeover? And the hero falls deeply in love with her?”

“Jah?” Madame Flemard nodded.

“I want to look like that, except I want to be my own hero. I want to look in the mirror and think, Damn girl! and then show up under my own window sticking out of the sunroof of a limousine.”

Madame Flemard laughed with delight.

“I like this spirit. I like it, jah. You are a modiste’s delight.”

“Merci,” Nya said, feeling a bit braver.

The woman began rifling through the assorted items and gently pulled out two things: a cropped top with teal and purple flowers and a long matching skirt. Something in Nya’s heart jumped at the sight of them.

“How about this?” Madame Flemard asked, as she walked over and held the fabric against Nya’s arm. “So lovely.”

Nya took the skirt and top, the stiff wax print fabric a reminder of home. A reminder of the simple black and brown items that had made up most of her wardrobe, despite such a rich variety of patterns in their traditional clothing, patterns she hadn’t been allowed to wear so that she didn’t call attention to herself. She’d had the money to buy her own clothes, but acquiescing to her father had been second nature to her. Her unhappiness had been shrouded in brown and black and gray, and this outfit was like a bright pop of color, demanding all eyes turn to her.

“I think this is perfect,” she said.

Madame Flemard helped her try it on, telling Nya she would take the top to let it out a bit at the chest.

Nya shifted her leg so that it was exposed by the surprising slit that went to her thigh, then fluffed the ruffles around the off-the-shoulder top, and placed a hand over her bare stomach. She liked the soft curve of it now, so different from her years of gauntness.

“Do you have anything I can wear today? We have some kind of winter market to go to. If I’m going to be followed by photographers, I want to make a statement.”

“Good idea,” the modiste said. “Also perhaps some waterproof makeup, in case there are more tears?”

She eyed Nya’s belly speculatively.

“There will be no more tears,” Nya said firmly, hands on her hips, and the woman nodded.

Nya tried on a couple of dresses before a bright, sunflower-yellow fabric that caught her eye.

“Oh, what’s this?”

“That’s one of Jo-Jo’s shirts that I mended for him,” Madame Flemard said. “He’d lost some buttons.”

Nya ignored the part of her brain that speculated on how those buttons had been lost and pulled the shirt on. It loosely hugged her curves, and though too long to be worn as a shirt, it was the perfect length to wear as a dress. “I have a nice brown belt that can go with this and matches my brown boots.”

Madame Flemard had tugged at her arm and carefully rolled up Nya’s sleeves, cooing the whole time. “I wouldn’t have thought of this, but yes, oui, jah.”

She shuffled through her suitcase and pulled out the dark brown belt and her nude brown stockings, blushing as she remembered Johan’s hand running up her thigh in the royal parlor. She liked wearing his shirt, and the dual sensation of being possessed and possessing.

That gave her pause—her father thinking of her as his to control was what had driven her away from Thesolo. Even now he was trying to exert that control over her, using his own possible death as a winch on the emotions that still tied her to him. But Johan had never claimed any possession over her, except for that joke with the king. She was free to leave when she wanted and, even if she didn’t want to, would have to leave soon.

Perhaps she cared too much for him. Perhaps this was a mistake. She hadn’t made many mistakes in life because she had never had the opportunity. She would do what she wanted to do, and she wouldn’t be ashamed if nothing came of it, because what was the shame in wanting? What was the shame in dreaming?

She tightened the belt and looked at the modiste.

“I’ll keep this.” She promised to visit Madame Flemard’s shop the next day to try on more things and to get her top.