Page 132 of Cashmere Ruin

“April. Breathe.”

I do as instructed. Matvey’s commanding voice is a balm: as soon as his words reach me, I feel like I can let myself relax, just a little bit. Like I have no choice but to obey. Did I already mention it’s hot as all hell?

“Okay. Breathing.”

“Repeat after me: you will do great.”

I fumble through a long, shaky inhale. “I will do great.”

“You worked hard for this.”

“I worked hard for this.”

“You deserve this.”

“I…” I hesitate.

Luckily, I’m saved by the bell: the lights dim. Everyone falls quiet all at once. The spotlights start revolving all over the crowd, hyping up an already over-excited public.

The music starts, and the first model glides down the runway.

It’s a dress I don’t recognize, but I’m immediately glad I didn’t go for my idea of hand-gluing three million mother of pearl scales to a skirt: the theme is clearlyLittle Mermaid-y. The gown is siren-shaped, shimmering in a thousand shades of blue, purple and green, and the Japanese model’s long, black hair complements it perfectly. She’s moving like a creature of the deep, flowy gestures and invisible steps, and I wonder if she’s barefoot underneath. It’d definitely be a bold choice. As she passes me by, the light catches on her see-through dragonscale sleeves, making them look painted on her skin.

Envy surges through me, but it only fires me up more.

More models come out: a fairycore gown with a forest-green hood; an asymmetrical half-tux, half-dress that screams gender revolution; a gilded Greek-style dress with actual goldwork in the stitching. The fashion-loving part of me is in awe, wanting to track down each designer and squeeze out all their secrets, a thousand questions per minute crowding my mind.

The rest of me thinks,I’m screwed.

When the eighth piece finishes its round, I can feel my chances start to dim. But what chances, really? Did I truly think I could measure up to all these amazing people? All theseactualdesigners?

Did I think a measly tailor could swoop in at the last minute and win it all?

Maybe with the Daphne dress I might’ve stood a chance, but…

As if summoned by magic, a familiar silhouette appears: that dress.Mydress.

The one Anne stole from me.

For a second, I forget this one isn’t mine, that it didn’t get in this competition with my name on it. All I can feel is a weird sense of exhilaration. Because, while it might not be the exact one I made…

It’s still mine. My dress made the cut.

The model is simply stunning: rich ebony skin and gold makeup, complementing the ivory tone of the dress perfectly. She seems to have caught the theme, because her tree bark side keeps stretching upwards, arm reaching up from under a cascade of embroidered leaves. Yearning—for a freedom it might never reach.

It’s beautiful.

I feel my eyes grow misty. It’s the first time I’ve thought that about something of mine. The first time I don’t have a snide voice at the back of my mind implying otherwise.

Actually, not the first. There was another time that voice was nowhere to be found.

The day May was born.

Silently, Matvey squeezes my hand. I can feel all his support in that gesture, even without words to back it up.I know this must be hard for you. Keep it together. You’re stronger than they think.

I dry my eyes and focus on the dress. I don’t know why, but something’s been bothering me about it—the tailor side of me. I concentrate on that, on trying to figure out what’s wrong.

Then I see it.

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