The Keeper of Happy Endings(13)

When the charm is complete, it is sewn into the dress, discreetly worked into the seam that will lay closest to the bride’s heart. The words should be wrought in white silk thread, the stitches nearly invisible to the naked eye, as a guard against copying and misappropriation. Binding spells call on powerful magick, and in careless hands can do harm that is difficult if not impossible to reverse. But in skilled hands, a thoughtfully worked binding assures both protection and happiness. On the wedding day, when the lovers exchange vows, their union is said to be envo?tée—spellbound.

This part of the training came hard for me. I was impatient, which made me clumsy, perhaps because I found the work so achingly dull. I longed to make dresses, beautiful, shimmering gowns like the ones pictured in La Joie des Modes. But Maman refused to let me do more than pin a hem or trace a pattern until I had mastered charm crafting.

I thought her terribly unfair. At fifteen I was already as good with a needle as she, perhaps better, and had a sketchbook full of ideas I ached to bring to life. Voluminous princess skirts, tightly nipped waists, bead-encrusted bodices, and wide satin bows with sashes so long they skimmed the floor. They were gowns meant to celebrate the female form, offering glimpses of shoulder and back and bosom.

Maman detested them all, pronouncing them fanciful and vulgar, fit only for the stage. Her opinion stung more than I let on, but one day after yet another harsh critique, I informed her that her shapeless confections were très démodé—dreary and outdated. No woman, I snapped sullenly—not even the ones who need our help—wanted to walk down the aisle in a dress that looked as if it had been fashioned from her mother’s best tablecloth, and certainly not at the prices we were charging.

She responded as I knew she would, by pointing out that our clients weren’t paying for fashion but peace of mind. Still, I scorned the idea that a Roussel bride should have to choose between fashion and la magie. I saw no reason they couldn’t have both. If she would only let me make up a few of my dresses and display them in the salon, she would see that I was right. But Maman was not persuaded. And so I began to sew in secret, working every night after her light went out, dreaming of the day women would walk down the aisle in gowns bearing my name on the label.

Now, years later and an ocean away from where I began, the memories are still raw, but it was work that helped put me back together again after Paris and all that came after. Daniel is right. Despite it all, I managed to make a name for myself and carried on the Roussel legacy in a way I hoped would make Maman proud. With my shop, I found my feet. And I found myself. Selling it, no matter how long it’s been sitting empty, would be like letting go of all of that—like letting go of me—and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.





FIVE


SOLINE

Always, there must be free will. It is not for us to impose our beliefs on others or to endeavor to persuade one to the practices of our faith. We do not seek those who need our help. Rather, they must seek us and request our assistance.

—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch 31 May 1985—Boston

This time, Daniel waits until after breakfast to call. I consider letting it ring but know it’s pointless. He’ll only show up at my door with a box of my favorite truffles. After so many years, he knows how to get around me.

I take my time refilling my coffee cup while the phone continues to ring. Seven times. Eight. Nine. I still don’t know what I’m going to say. I haven’t allowed myself to think about it since his first call. But now I have to think about it, because he knows I’m here—where else would I be?—and he isn’t giving up.

“You’re becoming a nuisance,” I growl when I finally pick up.

“What if it wasn’t me?” There’s a smile in his voice and a hint of annoyance that I’ve made him wait.

“Who else would be calling me?”

“True enough. Have you thought about what you might want to do?”

I take a sip of my coffee, wincing as it goes down, hot and strong. What I want to do is turn back the clock, go back to a time when I still had dreams, before my heart froze over. “No,” I say flatly. “I haven’t had time.”

“I know a little more than I did the last time we spoke. The agent called again yesterday. His client’s been looking for a space to open a gallery. They’re definitely thinking lease rather than sale, which means you wouldn’t actually be letting go of the place. You’d just be . . . sharing it. For a good cause.”

I let out a sigh. “There’s property all over this city. Why does he have to have mine?”

“It’s a she, actually, though the agent still wouldn’t drop her name. He did tell me the gallery would showcase up-and-coming artists. She’s even got a name. She wants to call it Unheard Of.”

I run the name around in my head. Clever. Intriguing. Of course it’s a woman. “You should have told him it wasn’t available when he called the first time,” I snap, annoyed that life seems determined to throw me back into the past when all I want is to be left alone.

“I’m not your guard dog,” Daniel says in the voice he reserves for me when I’m being exasperating. “I’m your lawyer. My job is to offer counsel when there’s a serious opportunity on the table. And this one is serious. They know about the fire, that repairs were never completed. Gleason says she doesn’t care. Apparently, they’ve been looking for a space for almost a year, but nothing he showed her measured up. Eventually, she shelved the idea. Then she spotted the row house and just knew it was the one. Her exact words. She said it was as if the building had been waiting for her.”