Adriana's studio was a huge loft above an old printing house, all brick walls and tall windows and racks of clothes in every color. On Wednesday afternoon it was also a war zone.
"The hem!" Adriana shouted, waving a pair of scissors like a conductor's baton. "Who touched the hem? Priya! Where is my gray one? I swear to heaven, if somebody has put the evening line on the wrong rack I will move to a monastery!"
"It's on rack six, as it has been since Monday," said Priya, the tailor, without looking up from her pins.
"Then why does it look like it's on rack five?"
"Because you moved rack five."
"I did not."
"You did, and you've forgotten, and you're stressed." Priya spat out a pin. "Drink your tea."
