"Where's that ribbon? The one with the lace trim? It's got to be here somewhere."
"Maybe no ribbon at all? It'll clash with the dress. Less is more, right?"
"Forget the ribbon. Has anyone seen the blue heels? I swear I just had them a minute ago!"
The air in the dressing room was thick enough to chew. It tasted of expensive hair powder, aerosolized floral waters, and the frantic, vibrating energy of three maids who looked like they were prepping for a small-scale invasion rather than a party. At the center of this hurricane sat Verona. She felt less like a woman and more like a canvas, or perhaps a holy relic being meticulously restored.
Her hair had been swept up into an architectural marvel of braids and soft, escaping tendrils that framed her face like a halo. Her skin glowed, the makeup subtle but expertly applied to emphasize the clarity of her eyes, eyes that no longer looked like they were waiting for a blow to fall.
