Rise of the Death Eaters [3]

Chapter 61: A Simple Dress Fitting

"Mon Ange, turn for me."

Our lovely heroine was stationed on a small pedestal turned in on a 10-foot gilded mirror draped against a wall of Madam Oliver's tailor shop on the West End of London. It was a rather dreary day, if not colder than usual for the typical London season, however, the crepitus mood outside did nothing to dull the glow Ava expelled as she twirled in a dress of eggshell-white charmeuse and porcelain satin.

The figure that dress cut on our Ava was astounding to both the wearer and her mother, who sat leisurely on a silky-pink day bed, balancing a cup of periwinkle china delicately in one polished hand. Emmeline knew it was only a matter of time before she caught sight of a woman's neckline in her daughter's silhouette. To see the gleam all women had in their eyes of knowing more than they let on.

Ava had grown a few inches already upon arriving back from school for the summer. But Emmeline could have sworn her daughter had grown another inch within the time she'd been home. A tall frame always made clothes hang better on a person. It's why heels are always in fashion.

And in the case for Ava, her newfound height made debutante dress shopping a less unpleasant affair. In fact, the mother and daughter duo were having trouble limiting which dresses to keep.

"I really like this one, Mamen," I stated as I watched my mother's eyes linger over every inch of the dress. "I don't feel like I'm drowning in it."

"I could fix any length of gown you've found you've drowned in, if it pleases you," the seamstress clarified quickly from her corner by the pedestal. She was wringing her hands anxiously, no doubt aware that the duo in her shop were "big fish". To score a debutante dress this late in the season meant big money for Madam Oliver.

Why this duo would wait so long for a dress when the debutante balls across Europe began in less than two weeks was beyond her.

But then again, the daughter was no doubt an American. Perhaps the American's cheap shot at a debutante ball started past the usual European season.

While the seamstress was pinching her lips assuredly, Ava had spun back to the mirror to admire the off-the shoulder straps attached to a bodice that hugged her figure so well that she could swear her chest had never looked so good.

"We may need to do something about that neckline," Emmeline said, cutting Ava mid-thought. Her daughter's blue eyes shot up from the mirror with a pout that gave Emmeline some relief that her little girl was still just that.

"I like the neckline."

"But the committee will not," Emmeline replied with a sparkle in those jaded green eyes of hers. Those eyes shifted from her daughter's stare to the seamstress watching the show with subdued judgement that melted the moment she found herself the point of focus.

"We will take the dress if you can manage lifting the neckline and fixing the state of the dress's hem. It's rather atrocious looking."

The seamstress had to take every ounce of restraint to clip back that her handywork was anything but atrocious.

But as she would later see following the completion of this order, the seamstress would be well rewarded if she kept her trap shut.

And so she did.

As the seamstress's tape measure rushed about Ava's torso, Emmeline lowered her cup, finished with her tea, stood up to approach her daughter by the mirror.

"So I assume this is for the Parisian ball," Ava guessed, looking away from the mirror for the first time in five minutes. Her mother gave her a sharp look before retorting back in French, "I wouldn't have you caught dead in such a dress for that ball. We leave for Paris for the other dress tailors tomorrow morning."