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“Then someone worth having gets down on the floor with you until you can.”

I stare at her, but she doesn’t look at me.

Still, her expression has changed.

“Did someone do that for you?” I ask quietly.

Hazel continues whipping tiny stitches where she took in the dress. “We’re talking about your dress.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes,” she says. “We are.”

I want to push. Maybe I should.

But maybe I shouldn’t.

So I let it go.

For now.

She works quickly but doesn’t rush.

I sit and watch, half mesmerized. “How are you doing that so fast?”

She doesn’t look up. “Practice.”

“That’s not practice. That’s magic.”

She furrows her eyebrows. “It’s a needle.”

“It’s definitely magic.”

She laughs. “If I were magic, do you think I’d be working as a maid?”

She makes a valid point. I sit quietly while she finishes and then gives the dress a press with a small steamer.

“Here you go.” She hands the dress to me. “Let’s see if I truly worked magic.”

She must have. Fewer than thirty minutes have passed.

The fabric is cool beneath my fingers. Smooth. Far too fine for someone like me.

“Ella.”

I look up.

“Stop deciding you don’t deserve things before you even touch them.”

Apparently mindreading is another one of Hazel’s superpowers.

I swallow as I step into the dress.

The fabric slides over my skin, settling at my waist, my hips, my chest. I reach for the zipper and struggle before Hazel steps toward me.

“Hold still.” She zips me up and adjusts my left strap. “There. Like a glove.” She leads me to the full-length mirror.

I gasp.