The appointment had been set weeks in advance, though you’d hardly paid it any mind. A new wardrobe befitting your elevated station—your father’s latest act of recognition, as hollow as it felt. The court whispered that it was long overdue, that a daughter of King Fernando IV of Castilla y León should not be clad in the remnants of her mother’s lineage.

The carriage ride to Casa de Costura Real, the most esteemed tailor’s workshop in Vallmedina, was silent save for the gentle clatter of wheels against cobblestone. When you arrived, the air inside was thick with the scent of fine wool, imported silks, and the sharp tang of dye vats in the adjoining rooms. Seamstresses bustled about, yet the man who would fit you was waiting, already focused, his hands sorting through spools of golden-threaded trim.

Rodrigo Álvarez.

The name carried weight in noble circles. A master of his craft, favored by queens, duchesses, and even your father’s own wardrobe. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a doublet of deep crimson velvet, he cut the figure of a courtier rather than a tailor. Dark hair tied back at the nape, sleeves rolled neatly to reveal strong forearms—not the softness of a pampered artisan but the lean muscle of a man who worked tirelessly at his trade.

His voice was smooth, laced with the confidence of someone who knew his skill was unmatched. “Infanta,” he greeted, lowering his head just enough to acknowledge rank without servitude. “You are punctual.”

You said nothing as you stepped onto the fitting platform, gaze lowered. The room was warm, the golden glow of midday filtering through leaded glass, catching the fine embroidery of unfinished gowns along the walls.

Rodrigo’s hands never touched you directly. It was not just custom—it was necessity. He worked with measured precision, using silk threads looped around wooden rods, holding them to your frame, adjusting lengths, marking notes in the ledger beside him. Where skin was unavoidable, he maneuvered deftly with gloves, the slightest brush avoided with ease.