The Old Opera Hall had not held a fashion show in sixty years.
Silveria stood in the wings behind a heavy red curtain, with her heart in her throat, and watched the audience fill the gilded seats. There were so many people. Critics from three countries. Buyers from the big houses. Women in diamonds and men in velvet. A row of photographers knelt at the foot of the long white runway with their cameras ready.
"Breathe," Priya said behind her, pinning a loose thread. "You'll faint."
"I'm breathing."
"You're making a sound like a kettle."
"I'm *nervous.*"
"Good. Nervous means you care." Priya stepped back and looked her over, and her stern face softened. "You look beautiful."
Silveria glanced down. She was wearing the pale gold gown, the last one she'd finished. Adriana had insisted she wear it herself in the finale. "A designer should walk her own work," she'd said. "I'll hear no arguments."
