Arabella Ellowyn had promised a duchess the gown of the season, and she had nothing worth cutting. She stood in her shop among racks of dark green gowns and tailored coats, her blonde hair pinned high, her own green skirts brushing the floor. Bolts of silk covered her cutting table. Every one was fine. Not one was striking enough. A plain fabric made a plain dress, and a plain dress on an aristocrat would end her chance to define the next season. She needed cloth that stopped people in the street. She had spent three days visiting weavers. Each showed her the same tired stripes and florals. The best boutiques offered nothing new. She could sew a hidden repair into any garment she made, as she always did, but a secret stitch could not save a dull surface. The duchess wanted to be looked at. Arabella could give her clean lines and perfect fit. She could not give her a fabric that made a room go quiet. A knock came at the door. Aura Prisma pushed inside without waiting, sketchbook clutched to her chest, sandals dusty. The old artist was Arabella's friend, and she never arrived calm. "Arabella! You wear the face of a woman who has run out of tomorrow," she said. "Tell me the trouble, and I will paint it smaller." Arabella spread her hands over the useless silks. "I need a fabric no one has seen. The season depends on it. Every bolt in this city is asleep." Aura set her sketchbook down and flipped past pages of doors and faces. She stopped at a smear of pale blue. "Then you must not buy a fabric," she said. "You must invent one. Listen. Roses. Clocks. Compasses. Little balloons drifting up a field of soft sky. I saw such a pattern once, in a dream I never caught in time." She sketched fast, her hand loose. "A cloth that tells the whole city on one skirt." Arabella leaned over the drawing. Roses climbed between brass gears. A hot-air balloon floated near a compass rose. It was strange and rich and unlike anything hanging in any window. Her pulse quickened. No weaver stocked this. So she would have one made. That week she took Aura's sketch to a printer who worked in silk. She chose pale blue ground, gold filigree, and the drifting balloons. When the finished length arrived, she hung it on a brass frame in her shop and stepped back. The pattern held the eye and would not let go. She had her season-defining cloth at last. But fabric this bold demanded a design worthy of it. A single flaw in the cut would waste every yard, and she had commissioned only one length. She had solved the surface. Now she had to draft a gown that could carry it, with no cloth to spare for a mistake.