Amy spread the soft pink fabric across the worn wooden table, the gleam in Priscilla’s eyes reflecting the gentle hue. The little girl clapped her hands with unbridled excitement.
“It’s so pretty!” Priscilla exclaimed.
“Yes, it’ll make a fine dress for you,” Amy replied, measuring and snipping with practiced ease, her heart buoyant amidst the flutters of cotton.
“Can we add some fairy wings to it to make me fly?” Priscilla asked.
“We won’t attach them to the dress, but I’ll make some fairy wings,” Amy chuckled, envisioning Priscilla twirling in her new dress.
“Ruffles!” Ruby chimed in, bouncing on her toes. “Lots and lots!”
“Ruffles it is,” Amy agreed, nodding at the eager child. “This will be a church dress, so ruffles are necessary!”
As if summoned by Amy’s musings, Beatrice reappeared, her face flushed from the walk and looking excited. She hovered near the table, watching Amy’s hands move.
“I want my dress with...with a train!” Beatrice declared.
“Trains are lovely,” Amy said, placing the scissors down, “but not very practical for every day. You know how muddy it can get.”
“Then maybe just...” Beatrice trailed off, biting her lip in thought.
“Here,” Amy offered, rummaging through a modest pile of patterns, “these are what I have. But none quite match your grand ideas.”
Beatrice’s nose wrinkled in mild frustration before a spark lit up her features. “Wait here!” she instructed, dashing away before anyone could utter a word. Curiosity bubbled within Amy as she continued pinning the fabric for Priscilla’s dress.
Moments later, Beatrice returned, arms straining beneath the weight of a dusty crate.
“Mother’s patterns,” Beatrice said, her voice softer. “She loved making dresses.”
“Your mother had exquisite taste,” Amy observed, peering into the crate.
Together they sifted through the designs, the air tinged with memories and muted hope. Beatrice’s finger halted on an elaborate drawing, her expression brightening.
“This one,” she said, laying the paper pattern atop the others. “It looks like my mother’s favorite dress, but my colors will be different.”
“Of course,” Amy smiled, “we can start on yours after we finish with Priscilla’s.”
“Thank you, Amy,” Beatrice murmured with a smile.
“Always,” Amy replied. She felt as if she and Beatrice had a true breakthrough.
AMY TRACED THE DELICATElines of the sewing pattern with her finger. Beatrice beamed down at the intricate sketch on the table—a high-waisted dress with just the right amount of frill for a young lady of twelve.
“Are you sure?” Amy asked, knowing full well the joy dancing in Beatrice’s eyes.
“It’s perfect,” Beatrice said. “Just like she would have made.”
“Priscilla’s dress is already laid out. Mind if I stitch hers up first?” Amy asked, wishing she could do them all at the same time. “If you want to help sew, it will be done much faster.”
“I’ll help,” Beatrice agreed.
The day waned as Amy tucked Priscilla’s dress under her arm and moved toward the oven. The scent of baking bread wafted through the room, mingling with the earthy aroma of stewing herbs. She slid the supper inside.
The front door creaked open. George ambled in, his grin wide enough to split his face in two, while Tim followed, muscles straining against the bulk of something hidden from view.
“Look what we have here,” George announced.
Together, they heaved their surprise onto the wooden floor—a sewing machine, sleek and gleaming even in the dimming light. The very one Amy had admired in town but dared not dream of owning.
