Elena Fiore had counted every hour her daughter had been gone. Three days. Seventy-one hours, now. She held the torn hem of Beatrice's coat in her lap, the last thing her daughter had touched, and she meant to find her before the count reached a hundred. A neighbor had given her a name. A seamstress with steady hands who fixed anything. Elena did not care about the hem. She cared that the woman might have seen a young woman pass through. The shop smelled of thread and cedar. Heavy velvet drapes hung drawn across the front window, sealing the room from the street. Behind a workbench stood a woman of thirty-seven, dark hair pinned low, blue eyes steady. She set down her scissors when Elena entered. "You have mending," the woman said. Not a question. "Are you Artemisia?" Elena laid the coat on the polished tabletop. "My daughter is missing. Someone said you notice things others miss." Artemisia's hands went still. She did not answer. Then a curtain at the back parted. A young woman stepped out, dressed in burgundy velvet, a lace-trimmed hat in her hands. Twenty-nine. She stopped mid-step when she saw Elena's face. Elena's breath caught. She knew that jaw. She knew the small crease between those brows. "Beatrice," Elena whispered. The young woman did not run to her. She stared, as though reading a page she half remembered. Her lips moved. "Mother." The word landed strange in Beatrice's mouth, careful, like a coat she had not worn in years. She touched a silver locket at her throat. Elena watched her daughter's certainty grow behind her eyes. "You raised me alone," Beatrice said slowly. "You gave up your name. You gave up a man you loved." Elena's hands shook. "Yes. Yes, all of it." "I remember the house with the ornate trim," Beatrice said. "The green one. I remember you counting my fever in hours." She frowned. "But I also remember falling. Through a ceiling." Elena crossed the room and took her daughter's face in both hands. Real. Warm. Alive. She wept without shame. Behind them, Artemisia gripped the edge of the workbench. Her knuckles went white. "You know her," Artemisia said. Flat. "That is not possible." Elena turned. "She is my daughter. She has been gone three days." "Three days," Artemisia repeated. Something crossed her face and vanished. "To me she has been here two weeks. And to her memory, her whole life." Beatrice looked between the two women. Her hand found Elena's and held it, tight. "I don't understand what I am," Beatrice said quietly. "I remember two lives. Both feel true." Elena did not let go. She had her daughter back. But the seamstress's face told her the finding was only the start. Someone had made Beatrice. Elena meant to learn who, and what it had cost her child.