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“I think this dress will stun the nobility, and leave them stupefied with envy and lust," Madame Sandrine announced with relish.
"I'm just glad it's not crimson, like everything else you drape," Farah said to her husband as she glanced at her transformation in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors across from the raised podium on which she stood. The creation of blue silk evoked the midnight sky, as it wrapped her bosom and waist in bejeweled gathers before cascading from her hips in a dark waterfall. The shamelessly cut bodice was lent a hint of respectability by folds of a shimmering diaphanous silver material draping from a choker of gems about her neck and flowing down her shoulders like moonbeams. To call them sleeves would have been a mistake, for all they concealed.
Madame Sandrine threw a teasing look over her shoulder at Blackwell. "How fitting that the color of blood is the one you prefer the most."
"Not for her," Dorian rumbled.
The seamstress lifted a winged eyebrow, but didn't comment. "Voila. I believe that is all I'll need from you today, Madame Blackwell. I can have these finished in the morning, and in the meantime I have a lovely soft gray frock hemmed with tiny pink blossoms that will bring out the color in your cheeks.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“From the beginning, I have been working between the seams. Where you have ripped, I have mended. When you have torn, I have sewn you. Stitching death to resurrection, failure to dreams, hurt to healing. I never throw out a fabric because it needs repairing.
You've spent your life on the other side of the seams, thinking all the if-only's. But there will always be another section to piece. Another hole that needs mending. So long as you live, you will have loose stitches---don't avoid them. Come and exchange them for strong seams.
Keep the fabric of your dreams.”
― Ashley Clark, The Dress Shop on King Street

“I know High Ladies are probably supposed to wear a new dress every day,' I mused, smiling at the gown, 'but I'm rather attached to this one.'

He ran his hand down my thigh. 'I'm glad.'

'You never told me where you got it- where you got all my favourite dresses.'

Rhys arched a dark brow. 'You never figured it out?'

I shook my head.

For a moment, he said nothing, his head dipping to study the dress.

'My mother made them.'

I went still.'

Rhys smiled sadly at the shimmering gown. 'She was a seamstress, back at the camp where she'd been raised. She didn't just do the work because she was ordered to. She did it because she loved it. And when she mated my father, she continued.'

I grazed a reverent hand down my sleeve. 'I- I had no idea.

His eyes were star-bright. 'Long ago, when I was still a boy, she made them- all your gowns. A trousseau for my future bride.' His throat bobbed. 'Every piece... Every piece I have ever given you to wear, she made them. For you.'

My eyes stung as I breathed. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'He shrugged with one shoulder. 'I thought you might be... disturbed to wear gowns made by a female who died centuries ago.'

I put a hand over my heart. 'I am honoured, Rhys. Beyond words.'

His mouth trembled a bit. 'She would have loved you.'

It was as great a gift as any I'd been given. I leaned down until our brows touched. I would have loved her.

I felt his gratitude without him saying a word as we remained there, breathing each other in for long minutes.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Frost and Starlight

“Alyssa tried to lift her chin. She was going to do the one thing she loved again- something that reminded her of her mother; something dear to her. So what if she felt this undeniable attraction toward the dark-haired man.
Correction.
Earl.
So what, indeed.”
― Nicole Castro, Stone and Glass

“The proclamation had been very clear: All eligible maidens were to attend. All. High or low estate, fat or thin, short or tall, one leg or two. In one week's time, the prince was going to pick a pretty girl from the crowd and make a princess of her. To most women in the kingdom, it was as though God had extended His hand to them.

But not to the seamstresses.

To old Clara Le Dure, it seemed the king had decided this was the week she ought to die. He was personally seeing to it that she should stitch herself into oblivion.”
― Auston Habershaw, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, January/February 2020

“GREEN BIRD

You cloth men with your feathers and your love like the sea. Your eyes like a sword piercing every inch of my heart. My pen fell when I had to look at them the fourth time.
Oh mother love, the seamstress of destiny
The designer of hearts

Your offsprings are like stars beyond the reach of men. They glow and glitters in grace.
Great bird of the forest.

Poem by Victor Vote for Olatunbosun Victoria Olayemi
©ï¸�2021 by VVF”
― Victor Vote