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Lo-and-behold, Arabella’s assistant had called Renate a few days later, and the appointment was made. For today, in fact. And so both Renate and Aoife were in her office, where she’d been doodling and drawing portraits instead of focusing on the tasks at hand. So what else was new?

“I’m as ready for her as I will be, Aoife. We don’t even know what she really wants.”

Chiara tugged on her long sleeve, her gray knit dress hugging her pleasantly, warding off the chill of the early New York fall, offering one more layer of soft armor among the sensory overload that was slowly creeping in.

“Bah, what could that old biddy want?” Uncharacteristically, Renate threw her hands up in the air. Chiara’s antennae quivered. Her friend was on edge, and wasn’t that curious? Did she know Arabella? Was that the real reason she’d put roadblocks in front of the socialite? Even if they’d also been entirely justifiable.

“I am not really sure, Renate, but do you think I should be worried? After all, I know the Editor-In-Chief fairly well. I don’t think Benedict would screw me over. And honestly, even if he and Arabella are up to no good, our outstanding orders are years long. I’m thoroughly uninterested in the glory of it, and you know it.”

Chiara almost choked on the lie and wondered at herself. Why deny that she wanted everything? Maybe because it scared her so much. And maybe because the last time she’d put herself out there, had opened herself up, the ensuing betrayal had been witnessed by millions of newspaper readers and internet dwellers. And no, she wasn’t thinking about her ex wife's proclivities. Rather, Vi’s knife was still sticking out from her back.

Renate scoffed and ran her fingers through her hair, and now Chiara knew she was holding something back. Nobody touched that pristine coif.

“Arabella may have changed some of her fair-weather ways. And Benedict was always upfront and aboveboard in his dealings with Lilien. So no, I don’t think either of them will try anything underhanded. But I do want recognition for you. If only to throw a Poise cover in quite a number of people’s faces.”

“Ah, so it’s revenge then.” Chiara stood up and handed Renate the finished sketch, making her friend purse her lips and Aoife laugh out loud.

Chiara shook her head. “I can’t say that I care all that much about either. I’m…” She wanted to say happy. But the lie didn’t roll off her tongue as smoothly as she may have wanted it to in order to convince either Renate or Aoife. So she settled on something closer to the truth.

“I’m content. And I’m busy. Or will be once we get this show on the road and dispense with the prophetic and the fanciful. Arabella will be here soon enough, and then we’ll know. And we’ll deal with it. As we have the past years. One step at the time. One stitch after the other.”

Aoife nodded, and Renate simply held the sketch and shook her head. So much for being convincing then.

As her friends filed out of the studio, something twisted in Chiara’s chest, a thin splinter of something long lost, long abandoned. Something that had been keeping her heart sewn together with fragile threads of old yarn was being pulled apart, a stitch at a time, the yarn no match for the sharp edged splinter.

She touched her sternum, absentmindedly, foolishly trying to allay the ache, as the early fall wind played with the red leaves on the street below her.

A stitch gave out, and she sensed that something was coming her way. Arabella was just the harbinger.

15

IN A FARAWAY LAND OF STORMY HARBINGERS

Chiara Conti had never been in the eye of the storm, and thus her contact with tornadoes was rather limited. Finding herself swept up in one named Arabella Archibald Avant was a curious experience. With both Renate and Aoife making themselves scarce, Chiara had to endure the first contact alone.

The woman marched into the studio—there was no other way to describe the way she’d entered Chiaroscuro’s atelier—took exactly one cursory look around, inclined her head, and took her phone out of a purse probably big enough to fit the entirety of Chiara’s selection that was on display.

“Yes, Bene, scrap whatever you planned for the next issue. We will be doing Chiara Conti. Yes. The entire thing. No, you heard me. I realize we have less than two weeks to shoot and print. I do own a calendar, you know.” The voice dripped with so much sarcasm, Chiara tried to hide her smile. She could practically see Benedict Stanley fainting in his tastefully decorated glass office. Arabella's next outburst pulled her attention back to what was happening in her own studio.

“Have I asked who, Benedict Edmund Stanley? I was not aware I needed permission, you ridiculous man. Now find some smelling salts and get yourself together. Later, dearest.”

With enough flourish to break through the soft-looking leather, Arabella threw her phone back into her bag and finally turned around, her shrewd eyes on Chiara.

“So.”

And this time Chiara didn’t hide her reaction to the tornado making herself at home in her space. She raised an eyebrow and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, the stare down came to an abrupt conclusion when Arabella harrumphed and took a few steps closer to her.

“Oh, for crying out loud, will I have to spell everything out for you as well? Neve swears that you are some kind of genius. And having seen her wedding dresses—both of them—and looking at all this…,” the pale hands, weighed down by enough gold hardware to sink a ship, made a sweeping gesture around the atelier, “I tend to agree with the woman. She is so rarely wrong, after all.”

“Unless it’s men.” It really wasn’t any of her business whom Neve Blackthorne, of all people, married, but the joke just begged to be told. She braced herself for what would follow, but Arabella threw her head back and her raspy chuckle was contagious.

“Ha, like your spousal track record is stellar, my dear.” The words might have stung, but Arabella’s eyes were kind, so Chiara smiled.

“Touché.”

“But of course, touché, dear. Of course. And I say this with no malice. I’ve known your ex-wife for twenty years, and I’ve sat in the front row at her shows many times, and I’ve worn Lilien’s creations with pleasure… But I am quite happy Franziska wasn’t the one designing them. Wild that one. And so here we are.”

Arabella’s eyes looked straight through her and Chiara felt a duality of both a touch of that pride, for the belated recognition of her talent, and a pang of fear of the spotlight.