Her Wedding, My Funeral

Nathan had crossed my name off the fitting sheet before I arrived.

Iris Fenwick — construction and finishing was still visible beneath the line he had drawn through it. In his narrow handwriting, he had put Dacre Atelier underneath.

“Put it back,” I said.

Nathan did not look up from his phone. “The programme copy isn't final.”

“The fitting sheet is.”

“Can we get Celeste comfortable first?”

There was the we he used when he wanted my work and somebody else's patience. We had been together six years, engaged until ten months ago. He still expected me to give in when he used that voice.

Celeste Dacre stood on the low fitting platform with both arms raised. The wedding gown was pinned at one shoulder and open at the back. Its new outer layer was ivory silk, cut clean across the collarbones before falling into a skirt wide enough to fill most of the temporary dressing room.

The room had once belonged to chorus dancers at the Regent Theatre. Old bulbs framed the mirrors. A rail of garment bags blocked one door, and the smell of face powder still lived under the fresh paint.

A collection label hung from the empty dress case behind the rail: SATURDAY, 17:30 — DACRE PRIVATE ARCHIVE. I moved the case aside to reach my tools.

“I don't mind the credit,” Celeste said. “I mean, I do mind. That came out wrong. Of course your name should be there.”

She looked at Nathan. He kept his eyes on his phone. On Saturday, Celeste would marry him wearing the gown I had come to finish.

Her mother, Vivien Dacre, adjusted the fall of silk over Celeste's hip without asking her to lower her arms.

“The public credits will be handled properly,” Vivien said. “Once the gown is complete.”

She wore a dark green suit that did not crease when she bent. Vivien had founded the Dacre label before I was old enough to buy fashion magazines, and she had once been able to cut a jacket from sight. I had spent six years working for her before I left. I also knew that handled properly could mean anything from a press release to silence.

Behind me, my assistant Kit took a photograph of the open back.

“I've got the left side before we touch it,” she said. “Do you want the waist too?”

“Yes. Straight on, then close.”

Kit moved around the platform. She had already worked three days on this fitting. I had paid her for one. The Dacre balance would cover the other two, the silk supplier, and enough of my workshop rent to get me through next month.

That was why I had come.

Nathan knew it. He had sent the offer himself.

One final fitting, one final payment, and then, according to his message, we could all move forward.

His offer had also said the original maker needed to finish a silver line. My name was on the work order, so I had assumed he meant me.

“The left side's pulling,” I said. “Celeste, keep your weight even.”

“Like this?”

“Drop your right hip. Good. Hold it there.”

I slipped two fingers beneath the waist and found the inner stay before I looked for it. The placement felt familiar. Plenty of gowns were built that way. Plenty of dressmakers used the same spacing.

Still, I opened the lining a little farther.

Vivien's hand settled over the silk.

“That section has already been finished.”

“It's twisting.”

“The fastening will correct it.”

I met her eyes in the mirror. “Fastenings hold. They don't correct.”

For a moment, she looked almost pleased. Vivien had always liked competence best when it agreed with her.

Then she took a small card from the table. A length of silver thread was wound around it, brighter than ordinary metallic embroidery thread and much finer than cord.

“Use this for the final section,” she said.

I rubbed the end between my fingers. It was cool and unexpectedly soft.

“It won't take the strain.”

“It doesn't need to. Follow the holes that are there.”

Near the lower edge of the lining, someone had already marked a short run of tiny punctures. They disappeared beneath a closed section I could not inspect while Celeste was wearing the gown.

“Who started it?” I asked.

“A family seamstress.”

“Then she should finish it.”

Nathan finally put his phone down. “Iris.”

He said my name in the old warning tone: gentle enough for other people, clear enough for me.

I set the silver thread on my palm. “My invoice is nine days late. Kit's hours aren't on the revised work order. My name has just been taken off the room sheet. If you want me to close a seam I wasn't allowed to inspect, we deal with those things first.”

Nathan glanced at Celeste before answering.

“Let's get through the fitting. I'll sort the credit line before the guests arrive.”

“There are no guests here.”

“The preview guests.”

“Thursday,” Kit said quietly. “That's when they arrive.”

Nathan looked at her as if he had only just noticed she could speak.

Vivien took the card from my palm and placed it beside my needle case.

“You will receive the agreed balance today,” she said. “Kit's approved hours will be included. Your professional credit will appear where it is appropriate. Now, Celeste has been standing for forty minutes. Are you finishing the gown, or shall I find somebody who will?”

She knew how little room I had. The silk supplier would not wait. I had turned down two smaller jobs to keep this week open. Another finisher could close the seam and leave me to argue about money after the wedding photographs had gone everywhere.

I looked at Kit.

“Photograph the work order.”

Nathan opened his mouth.

“The one with her hours,” I said. “Then send it to me.”

Kit did it before anyone could move the paper.

I threaded the needle.

Celeste lowered her voice. “I'm sorry this is awkward.”

“Keep your right hip down.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The silver slid through the prepared holes without catching. Whoever had made them had known exactly where the tension would fall. I worked from left to right, keeping each stitch small enough to disappear when the lining settled.

On the fourth stitch, the needle entered the side of my left forefinger.

“Damn.”

I pulled my hand back. A round bead of blood rose beside the nail.

Kit reached for the wipes.

“Wait,” Vivien said.

She was looking at the thread.

The silver had brushed my finger. A faint pink mark ran along half an inch of it.

“It'll stain,” I said.

“It won't show.”

“Blood spreads.”

Vivien's gaze moved to my face. “Finish the fastening first, Iris. We can discuss the invoice once Celeste is comfortable.”

“You just said the balance would be paid today.”

“And it will.”

Kit held out a wipe. I cleaned my finger and pressed a small plaster over it. Celeste watched me in the mirror.

“Do you need a minute?” she asked.

“No.”

I should have taken one.

Instead, I returned to the seam.

The last stitch sat lower than the others. I had to lean close, one hand flat against the lining while Celeste stood very still. Beneath the silk, the structure shifted against my palm, too slightly to see.

I pulled the thread through and tied the final knot.

The old dressing-room bulbs flickered.

Nathan looked toward the ceiling. “Theo said the circuit was fixed.”

“It is,” Kit said. “Those bulbs always do that.”

Vivien smoothed the lining over my work.

“There,” she said. “Now turn for us, darling.”

Celeste lowered her arms with relief. I stepped off the platform and bent to move the train clear of her shoes.

She turned too quickly.

A pearl-headed pin, forgotten near the right cuff, caught the inside of her wrist.

Celeste cried out.

At the same moment, something cut across my right wrist.

I dropped the train.

The pain was clean and hot. A thin red line opened above my pulse, then filled so quickly that blood ran into my palm.

Nothing sharp was near me. My scissors were closed on the table. My needle was still caught in the lining behind Celeste. Both of Kit's hands were wrapped in the train.

Nathan reached me first.

“You caught yourself.”

“On what?”

“I don't know. A pin.”

“The pin is up there.” Kit pointed to Celeste's cuff.

Celeste held her right wrist against her chest. Her face had gone pale.

“It cut me,” she said.

I pressed my left hand over my bleeding wrist and stepped toward her.

“Show me.”

Vivien moved between us. “Iris, you're bleeding on the skirt.”

“Then lift it.”

Celeste moved before her mother could stop her. She held out her right hand.

The pearl-headed pin had torn a thread at the cuff. I had heard her cry. I had watched the metal drag across her skin.

There was no cut on her wrist.

There was not even a red mark.

Mine kept bleeding in exactly the place hers should have been.

Author's note

Did Vivien's "Wait" catch your attention too?