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The tightness of the grip was gone as the second hand joined in, Chiara cradling her face in her cool fingers. Vi began to feel them warm and take away her own angry heat, just like Chiara’s voice was taking away the shame, the embarrassment over her panic attack, over her instinctive response to withdraw that she’d been unable to help or hide.

“Yes.” This time when her heart stuttered and sped up, it wasn’t sheer panic that was driving her. She felt loved, and for once, bathed in Chiara’s light, Vi’s chest did not hurt.

Before she knew it, Aoife was pulling her up by both hands, and Chiara was leading the way to a secluded room among the maze of others in this immense mansion. Soon, Aoife was tugging her into another smallish space with a myriad of garment bags and looked at her expectantly.

“All right, kid, strip!” Vi—now very used to commands of all kinds issued by Aoife and gentler ones, but still rather in the same vein, coming from Chiara during their many evenings spent fitting—immediately reached for her side zipper, the smell of alcohol clinging to her hands and chest, even as she peeled back the stained chiffon and lace.

As every other time, Chiara tactfully turned away and pulled on Aoife’s forearm. “What? Nothing I’ve not seen before—” Vi’s vision was obscured by material, and she could vaguely hear the subsequent thoroughly disgruntled, “honestly, nothing you haven’t seen before either and she’s wearing knickers!”

Vi chuckled, and when she was certain her slip, bra, and underwear were more or less in order—the dress having taken the brunt of the impromptu vodka shower—she called for them to turn around. She appreciated their efforts, but there was no fixing this.

“Well, the gown is ruined and the smell… I guess attending the ball is out of the question now. Can’t really go out there and take pictures in my jeans and t-shirt. I really am very sorry about this. And I think the camera is beyond repair at this point… I know you counted on me for the photography—”

“Kid,” Aoife just waved her protestations away impatiently. “There are like twenty photographers out there, so don’t worry yourself—”

“Shhh, Sully.” Chiara circled Vi, then leaned in slightly. Vi’s knees buckled again when she realized Chiara was smelling her. “And yes, you will need something. Aoife, bring me one of those large washcloths, since she can’t take a shower, it will ruin her hair.”

For once, Aoife disappeared in a second without any argument, simply sniffing loudly and muttering about how some people really ought to mind their booze consumption. Vi briefly wondered how much Aoife had actually seen or suspected.

“Chiara, I really… listen…” Vi had no idea what she was trying to say, except it seemed like she and Aoife were attempting to somehow salvage the situation. One that was unsalvageable. Vi closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. The words weren’t coming to her anyway.

“Do I have to shush you too, Ms. Courtenay?” Chiara still circled her, and her voice sounded from Vi’s side. There was a tug on the hem of her slip, then another on the spaghetti strap, followed by a characteristic “tsk” and an even more characteristic “Santo cielo!”

Vi shook her head as much in answer to the question as to clear it. Chiara’s proximity was wreaking havoc on her already battered system. The silky touch of those fingertips, her scent mingling with the smell of vodka, completely overriding it. Chiara was all Vi could sense.

“I won’t ask.” Vi opened her eyes and turned her head so quickly towards those words that the room tilted. Chiara stepped even closer, their shoulders touching now, and it was Vi’s turn to take her warmth, to absorb as much of it as she could with goosebumps running down her exposed arms.

Vi wondered whether Chiara knew that her reaction had nothing to do with her being cold. She wasn’t. She was burning up now. And her earlier shame and embarrassment didn’t have anything to do with it either. Because Chiara usually knew. Chiara usually knew everything.

“I won’t ask.” This time when Chiara repeated the sentence, their eyes were on each other, and Vi understood that she wasn’t speaking about the dress, the vodka, or anything related to her now certainly absenting herself from the ball. She was speaking of Vi’s panic and Vi’s reaction to being seen. She closed her eyes and nodded.

When Aoife blasted through the door a second later, Vi startled and flinched, and the silence was broken even if Chiara’s eyes remained all-knowing and all-seeing. There was no hiding from that gaze. So the end of their tête-à-tête was welcome.

For the better, Vi thought, because she’d been on the verge of opening her soul to this perceptive woman, and she knew she simply couldn’t let go of her secret. Or her father’s. Or Frankie’s for that matter. She closed her mouth, and Chiara stepping back reverberated in her bones.

“Here you go. It doesn’t smell of anything.” Aoife thrust the warm washcloth into Vi’s hands and stepped back as Chiara motioned at her.

Vi tried to clean up unobtrusively, but she still didn’t want to discard her mangled slip, and there really was no other bra. Her sigh was loud. Why was she even doing this? There was no use in any of it.

Somewhere behind her, Chiara and Aoife were murmuring to each other in hushed tones before Chiara raised her voice slightly to make sure Vi heard her. “Ms. Courtenay, I have to run. The models will not pin themselves, sadly. I will wait for you out there. Please don’t take too long, okay?”

Vi wanted to counter that there really wasn’t anything or anyone to wait for since she was done for the night, soggy as she was. But as Chiara exited the room, carefully sidestepping her, she turned to Aoife to argue her point and stopped dead.

Or as good as dead. Surely she was having some out-of-body experience, because there was no way… Aoife was holding up one of the most beautiful gowns of vibrant emerald Vi had ever seen.

“You shall go to the ball, Cinderella.” Aoife must have been waiting to quote the iconic line for a long time, because her face nearly split in the most joyful grin as she looked exceedingly proud of herself.

“Damn…”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said when Chiara showed it to me.” Aoife lovingly caressed the silk in her hands.

“So you didn’t…?” Vi made a vague gesture towards the absolute beauty in front of her. She didn’t have to worry about being understood though.

“No, kiddo, this was all Chiara herself. Every stitch, every fold. And it’s not part of the collection either. I don’t know when she worked on this, because both you and I know she had no time to sleep to begin with, considering everything being as late as it was. But, Goddess, if this isn’t one of her most amazing works! Ever, Vi. And I’ve watched her create for nearly twenty years.”

They stood motionless, simply looking at the glory in Aoife’s hands, and Vi felt her chest expand again. She thought there was no longer any space left there. After all, she loved so many people, but this was different.

This love swept in on the brilliant emerald wings made of silk and lace. It tore through her, through her feeble defenses already weakened by all the moments, big and small, that they’d been having these past months and finally settled down, pushing and pulling until it was sitting comfortably among all the others, resting closest to her heart, enfolding it, keeping it safe.