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“Finally,” she says, and steps back to let me in.

Nelle’s room has the same dimensions as mine but feels different. Much tidier, with everything in its place, a faint smell of cypress and violets. No clutter on the desk, no loose fabric pooled on the chair.

No professor shoved in the corner.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,” I say, unrolling the measuring tape. “Things have been complicated.”

“I noticed.” She turns to face the window and holds her arms slightly out from her sides, the posture of someone who has been measured before and knows the drill. “Bolero or cape?”

“I was thinking bolero. Short, fitted at the back, open at the front so it doesn’t cover the neckline. I was thinking black lace over a satin backing—do you have fabric preferences? I’ll see what I can scrounge up.”

“I’ll get the fabric,” she assures me. “I’m very particular. Tell me what you need and I’ll source it in Sogliano. I know a place on Calle Fondara that keeps good stock.”

I write the measurements down as I take them, shoulder width, arm length, the span across her upper back. “I’d normally get it from home,” I say, noting the bust measurement. “I have bolts of things in the loft at Fernhollow that I’ve been collecting for years, but I haven’t been able to get out that way lately.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “How long since you’ve been home?”

“A while.” I move around to check the back seam line. “It’s fine. I’ll get there.”

“Is it just you and your mother there now?”

I know the question is completely normal, that Nelle is just asking, either curious or making conversation, and yet I feel my shoulders stiffen. I write down the final measurement before I answer.

“Yes. Since my father and sister died.” I keep my voice even because it’s a fact now, it’s been a fact for five years, and I’ve learned to say it plainly. “I’ve been looking after her since then. We have a family friend who helps, Gibson, he’s been with us for years, but her caregiving falls to me.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Nelle asks. Again, not being rude, just direct.

I consider how to answer that. “We don’t really know. Her mind goes elsewhere. It started about a year after they died. She was fine at first, or seemed fine, and then she just began to drift. Some days she knows exactly where she is and who I am and she’s completely herself. Other days she doesn’t know what year it is. She calls me by my sister’s name sometimes.” I roll the measuring tape back up slowly. “I’ve stopped correcting her when she does. I think it’s better that way.”

Nelle turns from the window. She doesn’t say I’m so sorry the way most people do, which I appreciate more than I can explain. She just looks at me steadily for a moment and then says, “Has anyone worked out what causes it?”

“Not really. The healers, you know we have healers on the island, they say grief, sometimes, when it comes on this young. That the mind finds a way to go somewhere the pain isn’t.” I tuck the tape back into the pocket of my skirt. “I think she saw too much when they died. I think it broke something in her that never fully set again.”

“That’s not an uncommon story, at least so I’ve heard,” Nelle says, and there’s something in her voice that’s quieter than usual, more careful, the way she gets when something is closer to home than she wants it to be. She moves to her desk and straightens a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening.

“I was adopted,” she goes on to say. “Raised here in Sogliano by my parents, who are good people.” A pause. “I know of my father. My birth father. I know his name and I know enough about him to know that it was for the best that I wasn’t raised by him.” She says it flatly. “Some doors are better left closed.”

I nod, unsure of what to say. I think in instances like this, there isn’t anything to be said. Sometimes you just want someone to listen to you instead of offering platitudes or trying to fix the problem.

We go back to dress talk, sorting out the remaining details like the lace weight, the satin color, when she’ll have the fabric by, and then I roll up my notes and tuck them away, and we’re done.

In the corridor, I find Baz at the wall sconce across from Nelle’s door, frowning at it with a focused expression, like he just that moment decided the wick needs attending to, despite having no particular means of attending to it.

Nelle appears in the doorway behind me.

She takes in the sight of him and the corner of her lips quirk.

“Can’t let her out of your sight, can you,” she notes somewhat smugly.

Baz opens his mouth, closes it, and says nothing.

Nelle looks between us once more with that same dry almost-smile, and then she closes the door.

We walk back down to my room and by the time I sit back on the bed I’m feeling weighed down about the conversation about my mother.

Baz sits beside me and studies my face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.