Scarlett bent over the stone slab in the lantern light, needle flashing. The grove slept around her. She had one night to finish this gown, and one chance to turn it into a center-square shop of her own. The commission had come that morning from the grove's grandest resident, a woman whose glass-and-copper greenhouse glittered over the hedges like a crown. Impress her, and doors would open. Fail, and the landlord squeezing Scarlett for the center spot would never feel a whisper of pressure. Green silk pooled across the boulder table. Gold leaves crawled up the sleeves under her needle. The bear her client had sent as a guard dozed at her feet, warm as a hearth. Scarlett's eyes burned. Her mother would have called her stubborn. She stitched faster. Dawn smudged the sky pink. She knotted the final thread, shook the gown out, and watched the embroidered leaves catch the early light. It was finished. It was beautiful. She delivered it before the bells. The woman in the greenhouse tried it on, turned once, and smiled. "Tell me who is selling you a shop," she said, "and I will tell you what he owes me."