The streets of Rosendale Walk were already humming with life by the time we arrived. Carriages glided along the cobbled nes like swans on a silver stream, each fnked by uniformed footmen and clusters of fashionably te nobles. Boutique windows sparkled in the morning light, funting the season’s newest triumphs—mannequins adorned in pastel satins, delicate beadwork, and embroidery so intricate it looked painted by hand.

  It was, as Aunt Elle often said with a hint of pride, “the empire’s unofficial runway.”

  “I still say we should’ve worn coordinated colors,” I murmured as I stepped down from the carriage, smoothing my sleeves with theatrical flourish. “We could’ve made a statement.”

  “No, Nia,” Cece replied ftly, adjusting the pleats of her skirt. “If anything, I’d rather not be caught participating in that kind of aesthetic crisis.”

  Eri, trailing behind with a thoughtful nod, added, “We’d look like worker ants. Same colors, same cut… it’s basically a uniform. I wouldn’t mind it, though.”

  Cece gave us both a look—one of those subtle, scathing expressions that said never again—and turned to follow Aunt Elle without a word.

  Aunt Elle led the procession with her usual elegance, each step full of purpose and poise. Behind her, we followed like ducklings—graceful, polished, and cd in some of the finest shoes Hertel County had to offer.

  Our first destination loomed ahead: Diana’s Boutique.

  Nestled on the corner of the square, the shop’s exterior was pure artistry—arched doorways entwined with ivy, tall windows veiled in soft curtains, and two stone lions resting at the entrance like noble sentries. Their marble manes shimmered in the sunlight, as if acknowledging our arrival.

  The moment we stepped inside, the boutique enveloped us in a hush of vender and pressed silk. The palette was blush, cream, and gold—every corner bathed in warmth and elegance. It felt less like a shop and more like a fairytale dressing room caught in eternal spring.

  “Ladies!” a melodic voice called out, and from behind a velvet curtain emerged Diana herself—radiant and theatrical. A measuring tape was draped around her neck like a ribbon of honor, and a pencil perched behind one ear like a wand awaiting its cue.

  Her dark hair was swept into a loose, effortless bun, a few artful strands framing her face. She wore a pale cedon wrap dress that shimmered beneath the soft lighting, as though the boutique itself had chosen her as its muse.

  “I’ve been waiting all week for this,” she beamed. “Countess Hertel, thank you for entrusting me with your most dazzling young dies.”

  “Of course, Diana,” Aunt Elle replied, lips lifting into a gracious smile. “I trust you’ll do wonders.”

  “Your faith humbles me, Countess.” Diana nodded before turning to us, her eyes alight with purpose. “Now! Who’s ready to be transformed?”

  “I am, Madame Diana,” Cece stepped forward without hesitation, her confidence as polished as her boots. “I’ve brought a few ideas I’d love to see interpreted.”

  “Ah, a visionary,” Diana said, eyes twinkling. “Come—let’s shape your dreams into silk.”

  She led Cece to a drafting table near a sunlit window, where swatches of fabric spilled like watercolor, and delicate embellishments glittered inside trays like scattered treasure.

  While they dove into their design consultation, I wandered deeper into the boutique, letting my fingers graze embroidered veils and cascading gowns. The way the mirrors caught the light, the mannequins poised mid-dance, the faint hum of cssical music floating through the air—it was enchanting. Timeless. Like walking through someone else’s dream... and realizing you’d been waiting to step into it all along.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Eri making a beeline for Aunt Elle, who was leisurely flipping through a glossy catalogue.

  “Mommy,” Eri began in her sweetest voice, “I want a dress with Miss Raki on it.”

  Aunt Elle froze mid-turn, one hand suspended over the page. Slowly, she lifted her head, blinking once—twice—as if to make sure she’d heard correctly.

  “Darling… you want what on your dress?” she asked, voice carefully even, though I could tell she already had a sinking suspicion.

  “Miss Raki!” Eri chirped. “Maybe on the skirt? A tiny version of her—legs and all!”

  Aunt Elle closed the catalogue and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sweetheart… Miss Raki is your—pet tarantu, correct?”

  “Yup! And she’s about to molt. With summer coming, I think she’ll turn orange this time. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Across the room, I slipped over to the refreshment table, where a tray of delicacies and steaming tea awaited us. I picked a seat with a perfect view of the conversation—because, truly, this was the kind of drama you didn’t want to miss.

  Cecil handed me a slice of chocote cake with practiced grace, and Jane poured my tea with the kind of calm that came from surviving far too many family outings.

  “Eri,” Aunt Elle said carefully, “you do realize this is a tea party. A normal tea party. Not a themed spectacle. You cannot show up dressed like a spider.”

  At that moment, Diana’s assistant Meg—clipboard in hand—leaned in with diplomatic tact.

  “Countess, if I may,” she began, “the young dy mentioned orange. Perhaps we could draw inspiration from that—a warm palette, maybe sheer overys in sunset tones? Elegant, tasteful... arachnid-adjacent?”

  Before Aunt Elle could respond, Eri waved a hand.

  “No, no—that’s not what I meant,” she said brightly. “I want Miss Raki on the dress. Like a tiny embroidered version. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

  A long silence followed.

  Aunt Elle closed her eyes. “Of course you do.”

  She opened them again—tired, but composed—and unched into a very calm, very Countess-like lecture that delicately threaded fashion etiquette and maternal compromise. The result? A quiet truce. Likely involving a single, very discreet spider stitched near the hem.

  Meg stood nearby, dutifully scribbling in her clipboard as Eri described Miss Raki in detail—every leg, every hair—so she could capture the essence for a tarantu-inspired dress.

  Meanwhile, not far from me, chaos brewed at the design table.

  You’d think, with how quickly Cece volunteered to go first, that her fitting would be the smoothest. It was not.

  “Young dy,” Diana said, arms crossed as she studied Cece’s sketch, “a full ball gown is impractical for an outdoor tea party. The weather will be warm. You’ll melt before the scones arrive. I suggest a lighter silhouette. Chiffon, perhaps.”

  “Madame Diana,” Cece replied, voice steady but fierce, “I am designing a moment. I want a long train—floor-length—with embroidered flowers that trail behind me like petals in the wind.”

  Diana raised a skeptical brow.

  “Oh! Or what about a fairy-inspired gown?” piped up Laura, Cece’s attendant, eyes sparkling. “With translucent wings and glittery vines! You’d look like an enchanted forest princess!”

  I gnced toward Jane. She met my gaze and gave the smallest shake of her head, her expression the definition of fondly resigned older sibling.

  “I sincerely apologize for how my sister behaves, young dy,” she murmured as she refilled my cup.

  “It’s fine,” I said with a soft ugh, watching Cece and Laura build an entire magical wardrobe. “Honestly, I think they’re enjoying themselves. That’s what really matters.”

  Because honestly… what was fashion without a little drama?

  Eventually, I noticed that the spider negotiations had ended, and Aunt Elle’s attention had drifted toward me.

  “Nia, darling,” Aunt Elle sighed, folding her hands with deliberate patience. “You’re here to find the perfect dress for your tea party, not to indulge in an extended afternoon snack. Have you made a decision yet?”

  I hastily set my fork down mid-bite, cheeks warming. “I’m honestly fine with anything, Aunt Elle,” I said with a small shrug. “I don’t mind whatever dress I end up wearing—”

  Ahem.

  Jane coughed pointedly nearby. I gnced over to find her giving me the look—polite, composed, but unmistakably warning.

  “Young dy,” she said in the gentlest voice, wielding the authority my mother had no doubt entrusted to her, “the Madam expects your full cooperation with the Countess. No vague answers. No ‘anything is fine.’ A proper opinion, please.”

  “I thought I was giving one,” I muttered under my breath.

  Cece looked up from her sketchpad, raising an eyebrow. “Nia, that wasn’t an opinion. That was a diplomatic surrender.”

  Even Eri, solemn and serious, gave a little nod. “You have to at least name a color. That’s the minimum requirement for dress negotiations.”

  I ughed softly, surrendering at st. “Alright, alright.” I turned back to Aunt Elle with a sheepish smile. “Something soft. Maybe a pastel. And I like gold embroidery… it looks like sunlight stitched into the fabric.”

  Aunt Elle smiled, just a faint, approving curve. “There we go. A direction. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “No,” I admitted. “It’s just hard to imagine something perfect for me, I guess.”

  Diana returned at just the right moment, pcing a hand over her heart.

  “My dear girl,” she said warmly, “everyone has a perfect dress. You just haven’t met yours yet.”

  Then, with a sweep of her sketchpad and a spark in her eyes, she gestured toward a sun-drenched draping room.

  “Now—let’s go find it.”

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