The seamstress's expression changed.
"You noticed?"
The owner smiled.
"My mother was a sample maker."
For a moment, the older woman's face softened.
"Then she taught you something."
"Quite a lot."
The seamstress nodded.
Then looked toward the garment.
"Sometimes the people making decisions upstairs forget fabric has to obey gravity."
The owner laughed again.
The production director relaxed slightly.
For several minutes, the three discussed construction.
Weight.
Movement.
Fabric waste.
The limitations of certain materials.
And the frustration of receiving designs approved by executives who had never watched a skilled worker assemble them.
The owner listened.
Asked questions.
And resisted the temptation to promise instant solutions.
Then the older seamstress asked something unexpected.
"What did your mother make?"
The owner hesitated.
"Eveningwear. Custom pieces. Samples."
The seamstress nodded.
"Where?"
The owner named the small atelier that had once worked with Leonne Elegance.
The older woman went completely still.
She looked toward the owner's face again.
Then toward her hands.
For several seconds, she seemed unable to speak.
Finally, she whispered, "Your mother worked there?"
The owner nodded.
"Yes."
The seamstress's eyes filled.
For a moment, she looked toward the window.
Then she said a sentence the owner would never forget.
"Your mother taught me how to make silver flowers."
The room seemed to stop moving.
The owner stared.
"What?"
The older seamstress swallowed.
"She made a cape."
The owner's throat tightened.
"Cobalt blue?"
The seamstress nodded.
"With the silver flowers."
The owner placed one hand against the worktable.
For a moment, she felt dizzy.
The older woman continued.
"I was an apprentice. I watched her work on the embroidery."
Her voice trembled.
"She stayed late for weeks."
The owner closed her eyes.
For years, she had wondered whether anyone besides her family remembered what her mother contributed.