Page 14 of Secrets of the Six

She smiles and wraps her arm around mine to usher me to the round pedestal in the middle of the room. The seamstress reaches for the measuring tape around her neck. “It is an honor to meet you, Lady Elena. I am Yasmin Romero.”

Without further introduction – as if she’s deemed small talk unimportant – she dives straight into her work.

“How many dresses do you need?”

Thankfully, Lupe says, “Enough for the season.”

Yasmin’s mouth drops, as if to imply the task is impossible, but she snaps her lips shut and smiles. “I have never backed down from a challenge before and I don’t intend to today. You will have the most covetous dresses in Orlencia. You have my guarantee.” She winks conspiratorially and all the tension in my body releases.

I bob my head in agreement.

Once I’ve taken my shoes off, she asks me to stand up straight so she can take my measurements. She’s a whirlwind. Moving with efficient speed as she drags her measuring tape down my arms, around my bust, hips, and waist, across my shoulders and from the top of my head down to my feet. As she moves, she plucks a pencil from her bun and jots down all the numbers in a notebook.

As her experienced hands fly, I remain perfectly still as to not disrupt her flow. But that doesn’t mean my eyes aren’t allowed to wander.

Yasmin’s shop is lined with dark shelves that house thousands of neatly folded fabrics varying in pattern and color. Aesthetically pleasing to my eye, they’re organized in shade. Naturally, my gaze drifts to the black section – my preferred color.

However, I know black is not befitting a young, unmarried woman in Orlencian high society. It signifies death or a time of mourning. It’s typically worn by widows for an entire year after losing their husbands.

I force myself to abandon the idea of showing up to every single ball in black and peruse the brighter colors. I grimace. I can only hope the seamstress doesn’t insist on something peppy or obnoxious in nature like orange or bright pink. I freeze the second I catch sight of a sage green fabric with a sparrow pattern.

Carmen loved sparrows.

My childhood friend’s face pops into my mind and sadness hovers above me like a dark cloud.

She would have been tickled to be standing in this shop and measured for a custom gown of her own. In fact, she would be more than happy to be draped in eye-catching colors. It would suit her personality.

Despite us not remembering anything about our parents or our lives before the orphanage, we forged a sisterly bond through hardship. It was us against the world. We would scrounge for food daily and cuddle together at night to keep warm from the alley chill. Carmen would attempt to sew our torn clothing and patch any holes in the soles of our shoes. Through every high and low, she always had a smile on her face.

She was a far better person than me. Sometimes I wish I was the one who died.

“What do you think of red?”

“What?” I shake the image of Carmen free and stare at Yasmin.

She has a bundle of scarlet fabric clutched in her hands and takes the liberty of draping it over my shoulder.

“I think red would compliment the olive tones in your complexion. What do you think?” She tilts her head when I don’t immediately respond. “Would you prefer something brighter like pink or yellow like the other ladies this season?”

I don’t mean to crinkle my nose in disgust at the mention of pink or yellow but the thought of wearing one of those colors makes my skin crawl. She laughs reminding me to smooth my features.

“My thoughts exactly!” She tosses the pale yellow to the side. “So, red?”

I nod in agreement. It’s certainly not black, but red suits me.

“Then that’s settled.” She bobs her head. “I will start preparing your dresses today and will have them all delivered to you before the inaugural ball.”

“Perfect!” Lupe hoists herself up from the couch. “Thank you again for squeezing us in. The Doña sends her gratitude.”

Lupe hands the seamstress an envelope and when she glances inside she smiles and presses the bundle to her chest. “The Doña is most generous. Please tell her it has been a pleasure to serve her, as always.”

“I will relay the message, Señora Romero.”

With goodbye pleasantries exchanged, Lupe and I slip outside. The streets are buzzing with elegantly dressed men and women and part of me wishes Lupe would grant me an hour to walk around to see what I’ve been missing out on my entire life.

Our driver hops down from his seat and opens the carriage door for us to return to Otero’s estate. When Lupe motions for me to hop inside, I open my mouth, hoping to convince her to permit me to walk around when I’m nearly knocked over by a boy no older than eight. He stumbles into me and quickly apologizes. However, his pick pocket ways aren’t missed. I feel his nimble fingers slide inside the purse I carry.

It's how I started my burglary career. I was a pickpocket from ages six through fifteen. And I was pretty damn good at it.