She didn't notice the light in the room start to change. The golden morning light grew stronger and then began to fade into the soft glow of the afternoon sun. Servants came to the door, but she sent them away, irritated by the distractions.

"That's enough," Sean said.

​​

She jumped and saw him standing behind her.

"How long have you been here?" she asked.

"Long enough," he said.

"Just let me finish this last design," she said, turning back to study the coat she was drawing.

"No," he said, his voice turning low and cold.

"What?" she asked.

"You can come back to it in the morning," he said.

"But—" she began.

"No," he said. "You've skipped breakfast and lunch. I'm not letting you skip dinner too."

Catherine ignored him and continued to shade the lapels on the coat she was drawing.

"I got these as a gift for you," he said. "But I can just as easily order the housekeepers to burn them."

She lifted her head to stare at him. His face was calm and serious. Reluctantly, she put down the pencil and her notepad. He offered her his hand, and she took it, letting him help her to her feet. She wanted to keep working, but she knew he didn't make idle threats.

"They're incredible," she finally said. "None of the designers at Feather have even half this much talent or taste."

"Hmm," he said.

"Do you think I could poach designers from some of the bigger houses?" she asked.

He shook his head, "There's no way they'd leave couture to work commercially."

"What if I offered them a lot of money?" she asked.

"Do you think Feather is in the position to offer anyone a lot of money?" he said.

She sighed, "You're right. But I don't see how I can save the company with such mediocre designers. It already has a terrible reputation—we have to give the customers something new and surprising. We have to convince them to walk into the store and take a look around."

"You'll figure something out," Sean said.

She sighed. His tone was distant, and she felt stung. In the past few days, he'd taken an interest in Feather and her work there, but suddenly he sounded bored.

"A little encouragement would be nice," she said.

"Let's have dinner," he said.

***

Catherine rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms over her head. Her neck ached, and her hand felt cramped from holding the pencil. She took a deep breath and pressed the pencil back onto the paper. She'd spent the morning studying the Chanel dress Clara had worn. She wanted to take the style of the dress but convert it for everyday wear, but she couldn't get it right. Crumpled papers scattered the rug around her.

A maid knocked at the door to announce lunch, and she stopped drawing for a moment. "Be right down," she called.

"Mr. Blair is waiting for you," the maid warned.

"Yes, I'm coming," she answered absently.

Minutes later, footsteps pounded the floor, and she found the sketchpad pulled from her hands. She looked up and saw Sean glaring down at her.

"Susan," he shouted. "Collect these clothes and have them burned."

"No," she shouted.

"Susan, do it," Sean said.

Slowly, Susan began to undress the first mannequin, sliding the zipper down the dress.

"You're going to wrinkle it," Catherine shouted.

Susan shot her a regretful look, but she continued to undress the mannequin.

"Sean, it's not funny," Catherine said. "Stop it."

"I don't like seeing you risk your health," he said.

"My health is fine," she replied. "I'm nineteen—I can sit on the floor and strain my eyes and skip meals and do whatever I want."

He sighed, "Leave us, Susan."

Catherine glared up at him, and he stared cooly down at her. She wanted to shout and scream and throw a fit, but she thought of the beautiful clothing and bit her tongue. The silence stretched long and tense, and her anger grew.

"So are we going to have lunch or not?" she finally said.

His eyes flashed, but he turned and walked toward the door. Outside, he paused once to check that she was following him and then descended the stairs without a backward glance. She entered the dining room and sat down in her usual place, glaring silently at him.

She served herself a small helping of fish and a smaller helping of vegetables and took a bite. She forced herself to chew slowly, glaring at him all the while. He watched her, but his plate remained empty.

"Aren't you going to eat?" she asked.

"I'm too mad," he replied.

"You really should think about your health," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. It was stupid to provoke him when he was in a bad mood. She watched him carefully, but instead of shouting, his lip twitched as if he were fighting the urge to smile. He helped himself to a piece of fish, and the tension in the air began to dissolve.

"I thought you were at work," she finally said.

"I came back for lunch," he replied. "I was worried you were going to go through the day without eating again."

She sighed, "It's just these designs. When I study the outfits, I have so many ideas, but when I try to put them onto paper, they never turn outright. I suddenly realize that a certain silhouette won't work or that the fabric I envisioned was all wrong. It's driving me mad."

"I can tell," he said. "But no one is born a genius. You're talented, but that's not enough. You have to put in the work, too."

"I have no problem with work," she said.

"Obviously not," he smiled.

"But I don't have time," she said. "I need new designs right away—otherwise Feather will have a terrible Fall Collection."

"Why don't you ask a designer to take a look at your ideas?" he suggested. "They could give you insight and help you fix your mistakes."

"That would be great," she sighed. "But who would be willing to do it?"

"What about Margo Fresco?" he said.

"You mean the Margo Fresco?" she asked. "She's one of the top designers in the world!"