Iris sighed and leaned on the counter, the note still trembling slightly in her hand. Her fingers brushed the edge of the thick envelope like she wasn't sure if it might vanish if she let it go.
The parchment was thick, soft-edged, and clearly expensive—creamy in color, with the faintest shimmer woven into the fibers. The ink was a rich, midnight blue, and the handwriting flowed in an elegant script, each letter looping carefully. Even her initials at the bottom had a subtle flourish like they'd been practiced in candlelight a hundred times.
Iris unfolded the note slowly.
Dearest Miss Miller,
If the garment I glimpsed today is even half as exquisite in motion as it is in stillness, then I suspect I shall be the most envied woman in any room it enters.
It is rare to find craftsmanship so bold in intention and meticulous execution. Your artistry is not merely beautiful—it is commanding.
If you delivered the dress yourself before the gala's opening, I consider it a personal favor. I plan to arrive ahead of the other guests and would prefer to receive it without the interference or curiosity of certain rival parties.
Discretion, of course, is appreciated.
In admiration,
— M.Q.
Iris read it twice—once with her eyes, once with her breath held. She set it down beside the envelope, her fingers trailing over the parchment's edge like it was made of silk.
Jamie looked at her. "She writes like someone who drinks wine that costs more than my rent."
"She writes like someone who's used to being obeyed," Iris murmured. "And used to getting what she wants."
"This is real," she whispered. "Someone actually wants my dress. Not a hem. Not a patch. It's not a sock that's been worn halfway to hell. An actual, honest-to-gods dress."
Her voice trembled—not from fear, but from something wild and glowing underneath, something that had been buried under years of compromises and stitches. "And not just someone. A noblewoman. From the capital."
Jamie stood by the stove, half-forgotten tea cooling in his hands, watching her like he didn't quite know what to make of her. Or maybe he didn't know what to make of the whole thing.
Iris paced a small circle near the counter. Her boots thudded softly on the scuffed floorboards, and her words started to tumble faster. "I—I mean, it's probably nothing. She probably liked the color, the dragon, or the fact that the sleeves weren't tragic. Maybe she collects weird things. Maybe she thought it was quaint. Or ironic."
She stopped. Threw her hands up. "God, I'm rambling. I sound like I'm twelve."
Jamie tilted his head. "No, you sound like someone starving and just got handed a basket of fresh bread."
She gave him a look. "Thanks for the image. I feel very crumb-covered."
He smiled faintly but didn't move from his spot. "You're excited."
"Yes!" she said immediately, then stopped herself. "I mean. I am. But I'm also…" She waved a hand vaguely at the air. "Overthinking. A lot. What if she changes her mind? What if she wears it and hates it? What if she shows up to the gala and someone else is wearing the same dragon, and she gets mocked and decides I'm the embarrassment?"
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a capital problem."
"It sounds like my reputation is in flames!" she said, flopping into the worn chair by the counter. "It's just—this is the first time someone looked at what I made and didn't just ask if it came in gray. Or if I could cut the fancy part off to make it more 'practical.' She liked it because it was bold. Not despite it."
Jamie was quiet for a moment. Then he asked carefully, "You don't think it's strange? That she showed up today?"
Iris paused, frowning. "You're not returning to the conspiracy theory again, are you?"
"I'm just saying," Jamie said, stepping forward and setting his mug down with a quiet thunk, "we pulled a body out of the river not even a day ago. A dead man with capital medals on his chest. And now a noblewoman rolls up in a polished carriage, asks for you by name, and wants that specific dress. And on top of that, she wants you to deliver it—personally—to the gala."
Iris shifted in her chair. "So you think she's dangerous?"
"I think I've seen enough quiet bodies and pretty words to know when something smells bad."
She crossed her arms. "You think she's involved?"
"I think she's convenient," Jamie said. "Too convenient."
Iris looked down at the envelope, still thick with folded bills. "Convenient or not… this could change everything. I've been buried in mending scraps for so long I forgot what it felt like to be seen."
Jamie studied her. Really looked.
"I'm not trying to kill your moment, Iris. I know what this means to you."
She nodded, softer now. "I know. And I appreciate it. I do." Then she looked up. "But I'm going."
That surprised him. "Just like that?"
"You asked for help with the murder. You didn't even have to ask, really. You were exhausted, and I said I'd go with you. And now—now we have a reason. A real reason. I deliver the dress. You follow the trail. We get answers."
He raised a brow. "You're not scared?"
"Oh, I'm terrified," she said without missing a beat. "But not of the capital. Of me. Of the fact that I actually want this. I want to walk into that ballroom and know that someone's wearing my work and that they feel powerful in it. I want people to ask where it came from."
Jamie grinned. "And when they ask, you'll tell them you stitched it between sock holes and emotional breakdowns."
"Exactly."
They both laughed, the tension melting just enough to breathe.
Jamie stepped closer, nudging the chair next to hers with his boot. "You still want me to come?"
She blinked. "Jamie. I need you to come. What if I trip over my own dress? Or forget how to talk to rich people?"
"You? Forget how to talk?" he teased. "You've been roasting me nonstop since we met."
"Yes, but I don't care if you hate me."
He sat beside her, stretching his legs out. "Then it's settled."
"It is."
He nodded slowly. "I was already going to head that way. The capital has answers, and this is our chance to get close. We deliver the dress, and I start pulling on threads."
"And if someone's watching her," Iris added, "they'll be watching us too."
Jamie gave a small smile. "Then we'd better look the part."
Iris glanced at the dress in the window. The dragon on its hem seemed to flicker again—alive for the first time.
"I should box it carefully," she murmured. "Maybe pad it with that fancy gauze I never use."
"And I should sharpen my wit and pack a fork. You know. In case of noble duels."
She laughed, but her eyes were shining now. "Jamie?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for believing in me."
He glanced sideways at her. "I've always believed in you. You're just finally letting yourself catch up."
They didn't say much as they packed. The boutique, for once, was still—no hiss of the iron stove, no creak of the stool Iris always leaned on. Use quiet hands to fold fabric, wrap ribbon, and check pockets twice. When the bags were finally lined up near the door, Iris leaned against the counter with a tired smile.
"We'll leave first thing?"
Jamie nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sunup. Before the station gets loud."
She glanced around the shop like she was memorizing it. "You think we're ready?"
He gave her a sideways look. "No. But we're going anyway."
That earned a soft laugh.
"Alright," she said, brushing a thread from her sleeve. "Let's get some sleep. We've got a train to catch."
Jamie grabbed his coat from the peg. "Deal. But if you start stress-sewing in the middle of the night again, I'm throwing a pillow at you."
She rolled her eyes. "Then make sure it's embroidered."
They exchanged one last glance, then turned off the lights and stepped into the gray morning mist together—toward the station, the waiting train, and whatever waited beyond the trees.
The morning they left Greystone Hollow was pale and silver, the cold that crept into your sleeves and settled against your spine. Mist hung low over the cobblestones, softening the sharp edges of the village. The train station—little more than a splintered platform and a rusted roof held up by creaking beams—waited at the far edge of town, where the tracks vanished into the trees like a promise.
Iris stood beside a modest travel bag and the wooden dress box, her gloved fingers fidgeting with a loose button on her coat. She wasn't pacing, exactly, but there was a rhythm to her shifting feet—like a hum building under her skin. The fog made everything look softer like the world had been wrapped in gauze.
Beside her, the dress box was sealed tight, wrapped in layers of gauze, and tucked into a reinforced wooden case with braced corners. She'd packed it carefully, reverently—even added a lavender sachet inside, just in case it helped.
Jamie arrived a few minutes later, a small satchel over his shoulder and a scarf tugged crookedly around his neck. He looked at the supplies at her feet and raised an eyebrow.
"That's all?"
"I'm not hauling your stuff, too," she said, nudging his elbow. "This is mine. Tools, thread, and an extra pair of gloves. Some food, a flask, sewing kit. Basic city survival."
Jamie grinned. "So, essentials. Good. I brought sarcasm and crime scene photos."
"Wow," Iris said, mock-impressed. "We are so ready."
He scanned the fog-drenched platform, his eyes flicking to the alley, the bench, and the crooked lamppost that never worked. His shoulders were tense, and his thoughts were clearly miles ahead.
"They're not following us, Jamie," she said gently.
"They don't have to," he muttered. "Someone in the capital already knows more than we do."
A whistle cried out in the mist, low and distant, growing closer. The train emerged like a ghost—iron and steam and chipped silver. Its lanterns cast a warm glow that made the mist look golden.
The engine hissed and slowed, brakes squealing, until the old cars came to a stop. The conductor stepped down, bundled and unreadable, and gave them a nod before motioning them aboard.
They boarded together, helping each other stow their things. Iris refused to let the dress box out of sight—it rested upright beside her seat like a silent traveling companion.
Inside, the train was surprisingly warm. The velvet seats were worn but clean, the overhead lanterns flickering gently with the rhythm of the rail. The windows were fogged near the edges, blurring the landscape into watercolor smears.
They sat across from one another near the center of the car. Iris pressed her face to the glass as the station slipped past them, the trees swallowing the village behind.
Jamie settled back, watching her more than the scenery. "Still excited?"
"More like vibrating," she said. "Also, yes."
He smirked. "Just remember, the dress is the side quest."
"I know," she said with mock offense. "I'm not going to ask the murder suspect for feedback on fit and flare."
Jamie chuckled. "Good. 'Cause while you're charming nobles, I'll check their alibis."
The train rattled on northward through hills wrapped in mist and frost. Behind them, Greystone grew smaller. The shop, the old stove, the patched sleeves.
Ahead, the capital loomed.
And with it, the truth.