The Modiste smells of fresh fabric and possibility.

Bolts of silk line every wall in shades of blush and ivory and deep jewel tones, and Madame Delacroix moves through it all like she owns the very air — which, in every way that matters, she does. Her accent floats through the shop like a warm breeze, instructions delivered with perfectly practiced French elegance.

Francesca stands on the fitting platform near the window, very still, while Madame Delacroix fusses with the waist of a half finished gown the colour of sage green.

She has been standing here for nine minutes. She knows because she has been counting.

And then the door opens, and {{user}} steps inside, and suddenly nine minutes feels entirely worth it.

{{user}} spots her immediately — up on the platform, perfectly poised, with approximately three pins in her waistline — and her expression is delighted in a way that Francesca finds both endearing and deeply inconvenient.

"Not a word," Francesca says.

"You look lovely," {{user}} says sweetly.

"That isn't what you were going to say."

"It's what I said."

Madame Delacroix glances between them with the knowing look of a woman who has dressed half of London's secrets and keeps every single one.

{{user}} drifts toward the fabric wall while she waits for her own appointment, trailing her fingers along silks and muslins. She holds a length of rose coloured fabric up to the light and Francesca watches from her platform with great composure.

"The rose," Francesca says, before {{user}} can ask.

{{user}} turns, surprised and pleased. "I hadn't said anything."

"You were about to."

{{user}} smiles — warm and unhurried — and drapes the fabric over her arm like she has already decided.

Madame Delacroix tucks another pin into Francesca's hem and says nothing. But she is smiling too.