The lanterns in Madame Delacroix's shop had long been extinguished, but light still glowed beneath the seamstress's private workroom door.
Penelope knocked softly.
Genevieve opened it with a sharp breath — not annoyed, but startled.
"You came back," she said, voice warm with something like relief.
"I said I would," Penelope murmured.
The workroom felt different tonight.
Less like a shop, more like a sacred space — a place where fabric whispered possibilities and scissors held the promise of reinvention.
And tonight, Penelope wasn't just here for thread or guidance.
She was here to make a choice.
Genevieve folded her arms, trying to look composed, but her dark eyes remained sharp and curious.
"So," she said, leaning back against her cluttered table. "You told me earlier you had ideas. Plans. Talents that go far beyond what any young girl should know."
Penelope nodded.
"I want to work with you. Properly. Not as an apprentice — as a partner."
A strangled laugh escaped Genevieve.
"Ma petite, partnerships require money. Investment. Reputation. Things you do not have."
Penelope said nothing.
She simply placed a sealed envelope on the worktable.
It looked unassuming — until Genevieve opened it.
Her breath hitched.
She swayed.
"This…" she whispered, fingers trembling. "This cannot be…"
Inside: a discreet bank voucher. For 20,000 pounds (available by system conversion).
Enough to expand the shop.
Enough to compete with the likes of the Queen's Modiste.
Enough to change Genevieve's life.
"No one," Genevieve said in a voice barely holding steady, "has ever believed in me enough to risk something so large."
Penelope met her gaze evenly.
"You deserve the chance to be everything your skill promises."
Genevieve blinked fast — then reached out and cupped the girl's cheek with surprising gentleness.
"You are thirteen," she whispered. "Thirteen, and yet you speak like a woman who has seen too much."
Penelope didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Genevieve let her hand fall.
"Very well," she murmured, swallowing emotion. "A pact, then. You and me. But quietly."
A smirk. "The ton would faint if they knew."
Penelope extended her hand.
Genevieve took it, clasping tight.
Two misfits.
Two visionaries.
Two girls determined to carve out a future the world never intended to give them.
Genevieve pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.
"Show me," she said. "Show me what you see."
Penelope's pencil danced — lines clean, balanced, mathematically precise.
Genevieve watched, transfixed, as a new silhouette bloomed on paper:
- elongated waist
- soft shoulder shaping
- subtle lift beneath the bust
- a neckline that suggested grace instead of scandal
It was elegant. Innovative.
Everything the current fashion wasn't.
Genevieve breathed, "This could make my name."
Penelope swallowed a smile.
"Call it the Delacroix Silhouette."
They moved to fabric. Genevieve cut; Penelope pinned; Genevieve adjusted; Penelope whispered tiny enchantments into the muslin, coaxing it to drape flawlessly.
No one else in London would understand how or why it moved so beautifully.
But the world would notice.
Very soon.
As they stepped back to admire the mannequin, a silver flicker crossed Penelope's vision.
[SYSTEM: BUSINESS MODULE ACTIVATED]
[Passive Monthly Income: 3,000 SC
Growth Projection: High*
Market Impact: Initial Whisper:
"Delacroix quality has… improved?"]
Penelope felt the spark of something she hadn't allowed herself to feel since her reincarnation:
Pride.
---
As Penelope wrapped her shawl and prepared to leave, Genevieve's voice stopped her.
"One day," Genevieve said softly, "the world will know your name."
Penelope froze.
Genevieve added quickly, "As a visionary. As the mind who changed fashion in London."
Penelope exhaled, tension easing.
"Let's make sure they know yours too."
Genevieve smiled — wide, fierce, hungry in a way Penelope understood instinctively.
"Then let us begin," she whispered. "Let us build our empire."
Penelope nodded once.
"Together."