The whir of a sewing machine traveled across the ether. As intended, the sound blended with those of a lawn mower in Cleveland, a blender in Dallas, an electric razor in Seattle. Some people, those specially attuned to properties outside the normal realm of humans, heard buzzing that could have been a sewing machine, but it was faint and truly indistinguishable for what it was. More like a mosquito at the ear. They heard it but couldn't decipher exactly where to swat, so they did their best ignore it.

Of course, the sound was not supposed to be heard, and therefore not investigated. The very few who did hear it clearly, who also heard Nigel and his granddaughter clearly, well, they generally resided in a hospital setting where three squares a day were provided and tranquility came in the form of little green pills. At the least, they saw a shrink three times a week. Their knowledge wasn't taken seriously.

This worried Nigel, but what could he do? It wasn't his fault humans had devolved to the point where they no longer believed in enchantment. He shook his head and tsked as he sewed. When he was a boy, learning the business from his grandfather as his granddaughter now learned from him, no one would have believed the universe could get to this point, where people believed in the "magic" of technology but not the magic that could be found in their own hearts.

Of course, challenges were exciting, and skeptical humans certainly kept him on his toes.

Absently, he hummed as he completed the final seam on the full, purple satin skirt. He pulled it from the machine, snipped the threads and shook the material out before pinning it on the dress form.

"Edwina! I have the skirt finished. Come here, my dear." Standing back to cast a critical eye over how the skirt hung, he held up an artist's rendition of what the final product should be. He looked from drawing to garment, made a few small adjustments to the pleating around the waist and nodded in satisfaction.

"Hey, Gramps," his granddaughter said, bounding into the room.

For the millionth time, he mentally cringed at the lack of style his granddaughter showed. After all, their kind had the ability to appear any way they wished. Glancing in the mirror, he saw a debonair David Niven reflected back. The sleeves of his snowy white shirt were rolled to his elbows, but the Windsor knot in his tie was perfect, as was the knife-sharp crease in his trousers and the shine on his shoes. When he rolled down his sleeves and put on his jacket, he looked every inch the gentleman. Quirking his brows in approval at his image, he unconsciously ran a fingertip lightly over his moustache. Instead of selecting what he would consider an appropriate shell, Edwina--a name which screamed propriety--chose to look like a bag lady gone wild.

Like today, for instance. Long blond hair, streaked with pink and purple, pulled up into a ponytail to hang down the side of her head. Black lipstick and eye shadow. Two earrings in one ear and four in the other. A bright orange tank top and faded jeans--separated scandalously by a good three inches of bare stomach--looked as though they'd been worn (and torn) for centuries. And her feet--her lovely, dainty feet!--were shod in horrid, ugly brown things that not even the most desperate soldier in Caesar's army would have donned.

When he had questioned her once, about her appearance, she'd said with delight that she was starting her own trend. A Lauper-Madonna-Pink look. It was not something he'd understood. Today, after a quick perusal, he leaned closer.

"What is that?" He swiped his thumb across her cheek, and then examined what was on the pad.

"Body glitter. Isn't it cool?" She grinned at him.

Her enthusiasm, as well as her utter lack of self-consciousness, brought the slightest of smiles to his eyes, even as his mouth formed a moue of reproach.

"Yes, well." He wiped his thumb on a handkerchief pulled from the pocket of his jacket, hanging on the wall behind Edwina. "'Cool' is what ice cubes provide. I don't know what body glitter is good for."

Giggles flowed from her, reminding him of when she was a small girl instead of the young adult she was now. Where had the centuries gone? Despite the shudders her wardrobe caused, he loved Edwina enormously and strove to give her the very best education in what they did, which was make dreams come true.

To his amazement, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "I love you, Gramps!"

Blushing with pleasure, he patted her shoulder. "As I do you, my dear. Now, however..." briskly he turned back to the skirt falling in soft folds to brush the floor "--we must perform our first infusion of magic." He glanced to see if Edwina was listening with the proper attention and she rewarded him with a serious expression. "The first layer of magic is performed now, as the garment is being made. The next layer is cast..."

"When the pieces are put together," she finished.

He beamed. "Very good. The final layer is added with adornments, like the lace, pearls and beads you'll sew on the bodice of this dress. Do you know the chant?"

"Yes, Gramps."

"Excellent. Remember, the chant must be said for each bauble sewn, so that the spell isn't lessened if a bead is lost."

"I'll remember." She reached to touch the dress. "You don't usually work from a picture. Why this time?"

Nigel laid the drawing on the cutting table. "Because our Ms. Meadows will need to see it in order to be convinced."

"It's beautiful, and when we're finished it will be a gorgeous gown. The woman who buys this one will be very lucky."

"Oh, this dress isn't for sale. This is for the mannequin in the window."

"We're going to all this work for a dress that won't even be worn?" She turned a wide-eyed gaze on him.

"I didn't say it won't be worn." He dusted non-existent lint from his hands, rolled his sleeves down and slid his arms into his jacket. "Now. We don't have much more time before we arrive in San Francisco, so take my hand and let's say our incantation."

With one hand each on the material and the others joined, they recited the words used to fuse magic into the seams of the skirt. For a brief moment the space of air around the skirt glowed blue. Then it looked as though nothing had happened. They dropped hands and stepped back.

"Very nice, Edwina. You've learned the spells well. I'm quite proud of you."

She smiled, pleasure obvious in the sparkle of her eyes.

Giving her shoulder a squeeze he added, "As I said, there's much left to do before we appear on Post Street. We'd better get to work."

Picking up a packet of pins, she followed him to the cutting table and they started.

Derica Meadows strolled down Post Street on her way back from lunch. It was Friday afternoon, and with all of her work caught up, she was seriously considering taking off early. Her firm's annual bash, presented for their clients, was being held the next night, and since she had to put in extra hours to schmooze then, there was no reason to feel guilty about taking a few hours for herself now. But it still took some convincing.

Derica's employer, MiBar Medical, produced and sold medical devices, which ensured the guest list would be jammed with doctors and other representatives from the medical field, as well as the full complement of MiBar's managerial staff. The party was a formal affair with dinner and dancing. She mused lazily that she could claim the time to prepare. After all, she hadn't decided which of her several dress pantsuits to wear. Picking a color wasn't difficult--they were all black. But she hadn't yet decided whether to go with lace-trimmed or plain, tailored or relaxed, or how she might add the trademark splash of bright color she used for accent. A new scarf might be nice.

Looking for something bright to catch her eye, she glanced in the shops that lined the street. Unlike some women who didn't like wearing the same outfit twice, Derica didn't let the thought bother her. After all, men wore the same tuxedo year after year. That is, if they didn't gain too much weight, and then they rented one just like the old one. Why should she spend a lot of money on something new when the style and accent piece changed the look quite enough?

Food would be plentiful and liquor would flow, and by ten o'clock some of the men would be drunk enough to hit on anything in a skirt. Since she didn't appreciate the "honor," wearing pants sometimes helped alleviate any problems before she had to finesse her way out of an unpleasant situation. Derica didn't try for sexy, she just tried to make it through the evening. A slip of etiquette--or decorum--on an evening like this, and a woman's whole career could be shot all to hell. That wouldn't happen to her. She kept herself squarely within the guidelines of corporate expectations at all times. It was best.

She dreaded the corporate gatherings, but for someone in her position, management and moving up, they were required. Five years ago, when she'd started at MiBar, parties had been something fun, something to look forward to. But for the past couple of years, time spent socializing for the job had become a chore.

First, she had to find a man to accompany her. This was difficult only because she was so determined to get ahead that she was very fussy about the type of man she dated. If she'd simply wanted to go out, finding a date wouldn't be hard--she was honest enough to admit she was no slouch in the looks department--but ambition forced her to pay strict attention to her escort. She took care to make sure he was sophisticated and looked professional. Someone who could converse with the men and charm the wives, but in a non-threatening way. It wasn't always an easy slot to fill. For this party, she was in a spot. Her usual companion, her friend Randy, was out of town. She'd tried, and failed, to talk her brother into escorting her. It looked to be a repeat performance of what had happened one other year when being unescorted brought on veiled passes and innuendo, both from clients and some of her colleagues.

Next, she had to battle the self-appointed fashion squad, composed of The Wives of the most senior management. Frankly, I'd rather fend off the groping hands of their husbands on the dance floor than face the women who dictate proper length, style and color of my dress. She'd solved that problem with her classy black suits, designed to look good and fit comfortably. They weren't particularly feminine. Certainly they weren't revealing or seductive in any way. And that seemed to satisfy The Wives.

Last was the sheer boredom of the party itself. There were no surprises anymore, no sparks. She kept her wits about her by hardly drinking, but for the last few parties she'd wished she could let loose. She never would, of course. Sadly, she wasn't a "let loose" sort of woman and her position was too important to her.

Derica snapped out of her daze when she found herself staring at a satin gown in a shop window. The glass must have been old and wavy because everything in the display looked distorted. With her head in one position, the dress appeared to be deep purple and the trumpet beads adorning the laced bodice looked huge. Leaning a few inches in the opposite direction, the folds of satin took on the palest shade of lavender, diffused to the point she had to stare to ensure it was lavender instead of washed of color. Then the trumpet beads were barely noticeable. Instead she was struck with the intricate pattern of seed pearls gracing the top and capped sleeves.

With a huff of frustration at not being able to get a sharp view, she was compelled to go inside so she could inspect the garment without the filter of glass.

Your Desire. The name was painted on the door in simple block print. She pulled the handle and stepped into the cramped store, where she came face to face with an older, prim man in a well-worn suit. Gray touched his temples but not his thin moustache. His dark brown eyes warmed her to her core and she felt immediate trust in him.

The shop didn't inspire such trust, however. It was on the shabby side of shabby-chic, and like the man's suit, had seen better days. That explained why she hadn't noticed the place before--it wasn't the sort of establishment in which she usually shopped.

"May I help you?" the man asked.

She turned toward the window display. What the hell! The effect remained the same. The satin seemed to change shades of purple depending on her position. One way she noticed the beads, another she saw the pearls. Now she saw barely visible lines of sequins between folds of the skirt. Although there was no breeze, the skirt seemed to shift, and tiny shards of light shot from the sequins otherwise hidden in the yards of material.

"Yes, that dress in the window, I've never seen anything like it."

"It is unique, part of our special collection." He sounded proud. "May we make one like it for you?"

"Make one?" She stepped forward and reached out. The touch of her fingers caused swirls of violet to run through the fabric from waist to hem. She gasped as she jerked her hand away. "No, I need the dress for tomorrow night." Curious, she faced the man. "I can't believe you made this. It's wonderful!"

He closed his eyes and graciously nodded his acknowledgement.

The mannequin in the window drew her attention again. She'd never owned anything so soft and feminine. Suddenly her black pantsuits seemed totally unsuitable for the office party, dull and lifeless, even when she imagined them paired with a bright scarf or lacy camisole.

"How much for this dress?" Damn! She'd failed to keep intense interest from her voice. If she were the salesperson, she'd immediately jack up the price.

"Oh, you don't want that. It's only for display and very old. I can't guarantee your satisfaction."

Slowly Derica turned to the man, her mind turning over possibilities of why he wouldn't want to take advantage of a sale. Did he think to haggle and increase the price, now that she'd shown her excitement? Well, if that was his game, she could play, too.

"Perhaps you're right. I have a formal affair tomorrow night. Do you have anything else?" Casting a glance at the drab interior, she carefully kept her expression neutral. "I'm a size eight," she offered, seeing him give her an appraising look.

He nodded. "That's exactly what I would have said. If you'll follow me I think we have just what you're looking for."

They walked to the back of the store and through a curtained doorway. There she found a softly lighted alcove with two stuffed chairs on either side of a dark-stained piecrust table. A cup of steaming tea and a plate of shortbread were on a tray. She examined the room in amazement, not having expected a showroom. In fact, she'd barely expected curtains on the dressing rooms, based on the appearance of the shop.

"Just make yourself comfortable, and we'll see what we have, shall we?" He waved her into one of the chairs then turned toward another, smaller doorway to her side. "Edwina, we're ready."

A young woman dramatically swept aside the material covering the entryway and emerged wearing a pink chiffon formal with a fitted bodice and long sleeves. What caught Derica's attention however, was the woman's shape. She could have been Derica's body double with her long legs, narrow, rounded hips, and tiny waist. The woman's breasts would have nicely filled out Derica's own B-cup bra. The difference came in her beautiful violet eyes and heart shaped, Kewpie doll lips, painted bright red. And also in her short spiked hair that was a most interesting shade of yellow. Derica was so taken with their similarities in shape, it didn't occur to her to wonder why the woman was poised and ready to model formal gowns.

"This is my granddaughter, Edwina." The man beamed at Edwina then turned his warm smile on Derica. "And I'm Nigel Brown."

"I'm Derica Meadows. That's a lovely gown, Mr. Brown," she said as the woman twirled to show off the flow of the skirt. "But it looks like something for a prom."

His smile fell ever so slightly. "Oh, dear. Well, Edwina..." He shooed her behind the curtain.

After what felt like only seconds, Edwina came out again, wearing a lime green skirt and white ruffled blouse.

"No, that's not right at all. I need something for a company dinner, and I want a gown that will knock everyone back on their heels."

She'd barely taken a sip of tea before Edwina left and came back, this time in a sleek black sheath that displayed too much leg on one end and far too much cleavage on the other. Derica cringed then smiled, thinking of the reactions of The Wives if she wore this dress to the party. But a sexy little number wasn't what she wanted. She wanted mystery underlying a thoroughly feminine sophistication.

She wanted the dress in the window.

Nigel looked at Edwina and opened his mouth to say something--probably to tell her to try something else--but Derica stopped him. "Mr. Brown, let me speak frankly. You've shown me lovely gowns but the only thing I've seen that interests me is the dress in the window. If you're not prepared to let me buy it..." she shrugged her shoulders "--then I'm afraid I have no business here. So, will you entertain a purchase, or not?"

Pursing his lips and tapping his mouth with his forefinger, Nigel stood silent. Edwina disappeared behind the curtain then moments later passed through the showroom and into the shop, dressed in heeled, dark-brown leather boots, a brown suede skirt that fell to mid-calf and high-necked white blouse. How does she do that? But Derica didn't have time to ponder the question further.

Would you be willing to pay two hundred dollars as a deposit? As I mentioned, it is one of a kind and I'd hate to lose the only pattern I have." Nigel spoke without a trace of indecisiveness. Derica admired a person who took the bull by the horns once they'd made a decision.

"Two hundred dollars as a deposit? That amount won't give me ownership?" Two hundred was a steal to buy the thing, but to rent it? He was a canny businessman after all.

"Let's call it a lease. If you return it undamaged by the end of the month, and you've been satisfied with the results, your money will be refunded."

She narrowed her eyes. "I've never heard of any store doing this kind of thing."

He waved his hand. "We're not like any other store you've frequented, Ms. Meadows. Can't you tell that?"

In fact, he was right. There was something different about this shop. Shabby but sophisticated. Quick change artists and enchanting dresses. There was a sense of something unworldly.

"Suppose something happens to the dress. What would I owe then?"

He looked at her, his eyes twinkling. "The gown itself is priceless, as I believe you've already proven. When someone wants an item as much as you want that dress, well, is there a price too high? However, I think this arrangement will work out fine."

His eyes captured her total attention. They blazed with power and knowledge. Deep, ancient knowledge. She couldn't turn away.

Then they softened. "If that dress is what you want, you should accept my offer. I assure you, there is no other like it in all the world."

"Will it fit, do you think?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"You're a perfect size eight. It's a perfect size eight. For you, the gown will be ... perfect." He ended with a smile as warm as a summer day, and she smiled back.

"Will you accept a check?"

He nodded. "Of course."

Shaking her head slightly at the strangeness of the deal and the suddenness with which they'd completed it, Derica preceded Nigel from the room. He then took the lead, taking her to a small counter where Edwina stood, securing a handle onto a large box. She looked at her grandfather.

"Ms. Meadows has agreed to pay two hundred dollars, Edwina, and will return the gown to us by the end of the month."

Without a scintilla of surprise Edwina turned her gaze from her grandfather to Derica. "I'm afraid we don't accept credit cards."

She indicated the cash register, the oldest Derica had ever seen. In fact, she didn't know if she had ever seen a manual machine such as this one.

"We haven't exactly embraced the twenty-first century," Edwina continued.

"I see that," murmured Derica.

In moments it seemed, Derica found herself on the sidewalk outside the shop, holding a large dress box. The mannequin in the front window now sported a heavy wool coat with fur-trimmed collar. She snorted. That was an odd thing to advertise in San Francisco, and wondered again at the man's sense of business. She'd never hire him, that was for sure. Imagine leasing a dress! The gown was worth hundreds of dollars, and she'd given him a measly two hundred. And in cash, too. She was honest, of course, and would bring the dress back, but a good many people wouldn't.

Turning away, Derica barely noticed the old woman staring with longing at the coat in the window. Nor did the tinkle of the bell on the door make an impression as the woman entered the store.

Allison Hayes berated herself for the millionth time as she hurried up the street. Spending her lunch hour shopping wasn't her greatest desire, but she had little choice.

Why had she agreed to help at the reunion yet again? Hadn't she been masochistic enough when they'd celebrated being out of high school five years? She'd handled all of the arrangements then. And when the tenth anniversary arrived, hadn't she accepted the tasks of tracking down everyone in their class, bringing in the entertainment and setting up the welcome dinner?

As the third reunion approached, she'd determined to stay out of it. Yet here she was, sucked in again. At least this time she only had responsibility for handling the welcome table for the mix-and-mingle dinner on Saturday. The opening ceremonies, as it were.

"And I think that will be the extent of my appearances, too," she mumbled. Why emphasize the chasm that existed between her and her classmates one more time?

The first reunion hadn't been so bad in that respect. Everyone either had recently graduated from college or was trying to establish their place in the world in some way. She'd felt on equal footing. At the next, she had been among the few who weren't married, one of only a handful who hadn't left the Lexington area. This year, she knew she would be almost alone in her single status. Probably a few of her classmates had been divorced and remarried, even, sampling two or three times what she hadn't known at all. She would feel odd and provincial, still being unmarried and never having left their small hometown.

Walking with purpose down Main Street, she headed for the Belk's department store. The reunion committee, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to make the introductory party a retro theme.

"So much more fun," her friend Mary had explained on the phone last week.

"Fun? But I don't have anything I can wear to a retro party. I'm not even sure what retro clothes are," Allison had complained.

"Sure you do. Now look, Allison, you must be there. I'm really counting on you. It'll be fun, you'll see. Have your hair styled in a flip and find an old bridesmaid's dress somewhere. Somehow they always look like they're from the fifties." With that bit of sage advice she'd hung up to take care of some child-related disaster in the making.

So here Allison was, on her lunch hour and only a few days before the event, trying to find something that filled the requirements. Tugging on the door to Belk's, she saw the sign posted on the glass: "Closed due to broken pipe. Please visit us again later this week."

"Great." Heaving a deep sigh, she wondered where else she could find the kind of dress she needed, in--she glanced at her watch--thirty minutes. Nowhere. She groaned, knowing she'd now have to do more shopping than could be handled in a lunch break.

Viewing her reflection in the glass, she noted the lines of fatigue already there, and the week wasn't over yet. Leaving her plain face starkly exposed, her brown hair was pulled back in a bun, its luster normally hidden under a nurse's cap. She looked tidy and efficient in the white uniform. But she hurt from the hours on her feet combined with the walk uptown, making her lean to the right in order to take weight off of her left leg. The ache added to her weary expression. The last thing she needed in her week was to go shopping.

"Damn!" She hadn't wanted to go to the reunion in the first place and now she had to rearrange her schedule in order to find a dress she really didn't want to buy. She turned to trudge back up the street toward the hospital.

Suddenly, a noise caught her attention and she glanced up to find the source, a sign hanging over the sidewalk, squeaking on its hinges. Your Desire, the sign said in fine script. Vintage Clothing. An arrow pointed up the alley where Allison saw another, smaller sign hanging over a doorway. Puzzled, she looked up and down the street. She'd never noticed this sign before. She hadn't especially noticed this alley, to tell the truth. Vintage Clothing.

"What do I have to lose?" she murmured, dragging herself up the alleyway.

Pushing open the door, she experienced a rush of anticipation, a tingle up her spine. She walked into a store surprisingly different than what she'd expected. From the outside, the storefront appeared tiny. Inside, shelves and racks spaced on each wall extended far into the back, making the shop very deep. She supposed because the windows fronted the alley, the natural light that filled the space seemed filtered, creating a hazy, gauzy ambience.

She stepped farther inside. Background music was loud enough to be heard but not overwhelming. A song by a swing band ended and a Hit Parade ballad by Perry Como began. To her left she saw a Victorian wedding gown hanging on the wall. To her right, a flapper era dress, complete with fringe and sequins. Surely these were reproductions. No one store could have such a wide range of exquisite originals.

"May I help you?"

She started, slapping her hand to her chest. "Oh, I didn't see you." The man standing beside her looked like someone she thought she should know. An actor or something. That was it! One of those old actors. What was his name...?

He smiled and she forgot to remember.

"I didn't mean to startle you. Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Yes," she said, regaining her composure. "I need a dress for an event on Saturday. Do you carry anything fifties-like?"

"We certainly do, and I might have something in your size. Let's see..." He cast a glance over her while tapping his lips with his index finger. "I believe you look about a size twelve?"

"You have a good eye."

He smiled again. "Years of experience, my dear. Come this way."

His walk was so smooth he almost seemed to glide across the floor. Following, Allison's limp was even more pronounced. The ache in her hip had spread to her lower back and finishing her shift would be hell.

When the man stopped in front of a rack of dresses, she saw clothing from the right era. A gray poodle skirt and pink sweater set were displayed on a mannequin with bright, rosy cheeks and a long ponytail streaked with pink and green. Then the mannequin moved.

"This is my granddaughter, Edwina," the man said by way of introduction. "And I do apologize. I'm Nigel Brown. May I have your name?"

"Allison Hayes."

"Of course." His eyes twinkled but not in merriment. More like in confirmation. Then he turned to his granddaughter. "Edwina, would you show Miss Hayes what we have from the fifties? The dress is for a dance, I believe?" He raised his brows.

"More like a cocktail party-slash-dinner. For a high school reunion."

"Oh, what fun," Edwina said, smiling.

Not! "I hope so."

"Now, Miss Hayes, why don't you just have a seat and we'll show you what we have. I'm certain we can find something magical for you." He pointed to a chair Allison was fairly certain had not been there a short minute ago, and she gladly sank onto the seat.

"Not magical, Mr. Brown. I don't believe in magic, I'm afraid. Just something to fit the theme so I can get through the evening."

"We'll just see, shall we?" He winked at her.

For the next ten minutes Edwina held up dresses, more for her grandfather's inspection than Allison's. He found something wrong with each one before Allison could voice an opinion. The gorgeous red chiffon was too red for her coloring, the white velvet, too small. An adorable satin jacket dress in lavender was too large and a strapless brocade, too old. "Edwina, really," he'd said dramatically.

"This is the last we have, Gramps." Screwing her face up in distaste, Edwina held up a ball length gown. Allison knew her mouth fell open as she examined the garment.

Gold, brown and dark green plaid. It was plaid taffeta. The skirt was overly full. Two straps extended from the sleeveless bodice to tie behind the wearer's neck.

Nigel Brown cocked his head and a slow smile spread across his face. "Yes," he murmured, as though to himself, "she's an autumn, and these are the perfect colors for her. The size is exact--she won't even have to try it on." Beaming, he turned to Allison. "Didn't I tell you we'd find exactly the right thing, my dear?"

She tried to keep horror from showing on her face. "But--but, Mr. Brown, this dress is..."

"Hideous?" Edwina supplied.

"Yes," Allison grasped at the word. "Yes, it's hideous. You can't possibly think I should wear this to my reunion." Her voice tapered to a whisper. "Can you?"

He stared at her with that same knowing smile and patted her shoulder. "You're looking at the gown on the hanger. Most clothes aren't at their best when they're hanging up. They need the human form to give them character. And this dress will show real character on you, Allison. You can trust me."

Standing, she walked to Edwina, who pursed her lips and raised her brows, openly showing the skepticism Allison wanted to show, but was too polite. Taking a piece of material in her hand, she stretched her arm to shoulder height. Volumes of material still fell in folds from the hanger.

"Mr. Brown, there's so much here. Too much, and ... plaid. You do see, don't you? I can't possibly wear this."

Edwina heaved a sigh and looked to her grandfather.

"Allison," his voice fell, became smoother, melodious.

Allison blinked, dropped the material and focused hard to hear him.

"This dress is the right time period, the right size, and absolutely right for you. You want this dress, you're just not used to the style or the color. When you prepare for your evening, you'll feel like a queen. Your world will change, like magic. I promise you."

"You do?" A queen. Such a change would take magic, for she'd never felt like a queen. Well, maybe before the accident she'd been made to feel like a princess, but she'd been nine when the horse threw her, so that hardly counted.

"I do," he confirmed. "Now, shall we wrap this up for you?"

"Yes, please."

He smiled happily. "Oh, I'm so glad, my dear. You won't regret this purchase. I can see you now, dancing across the floor..." he waved his arms through the air as though guiding someone in a waltz "--the skirt billowing behind you and the crinkle of taffeta emphasizing every graceful turn. You'll be smashing!"

She hadn't noticed Edwina slipping away but when Allison turned, she saw the girl at the back of the store, putting the dress in a box. She hurried to the counter. "How much is it? I didn't even look at the price."

"Thirty dollars. Does that seem too much?" Edwina sounded as though she thought any amount would be too much.

"Are you kidding? It's far too little. I mean, this truly has to be vintage--surely no one would make a dress like this anymore."

Edwina coughed out a laugh. "That's true, surely no one would. Nonetheless, that's what we're charging."

Allison looked for Nigel. He stood where she'd left him, watching her. "Mr. Brown? Are you certain of this price?"

"You really are a good woman, Allison. Thirty dollars, please, and you let us worry about our profit margin, all right?"

Shrugging, she dug out her wallet. "All right, I guess. Thank you very much." Handing Edwina the money with one hand, she accepted the box with the other. "Well, if I ever need something old-fashioned again, I'll be back."

"Oh, I don't imagine you'll need us again," Nigel said, suddenly standing beside her. He frowned. "Hold still, my dear. You have a piece of lint in your hair." He reached his hand to her, letting his fingers linger briefly on her forehead. Warmth spread outward from his touch. The area around her hip and back felt hot. Her pain diminished and then petered out.

She felt her eyes widen in surprise. Twisting from side to side, she waited for the customary spasms to set her nerve endings afire, but nothing happened. "How did you..."

"There, I think I got it." He held out his fingers, but she didn't see anything.

Then it didn't seem important to know how the pain had disappeared. Smiling at the two shopkeepers, she said, "Thanks. I'd better go now."

"Have a good time at your reunion," Nigel called as she went out the door.

With renewed vigor, she walked to the top of the alley and turned toward the hospital, certain she was late. Glancing at her watch, she was astounded to see that only a few minutes had passed from when she'd left Belk's. Belk's?

She spun around, confused. A woman outside Belk's pulled open the door and entered the department store. Another, holding a shopping bag with one hand and a child with the other, came out.

But I didn't go into Belk's--did I? Frowning, she looked at the mouth of the alley. There had been a sign, advertising a shop of some kind. No sign hung there now.

However, there was definitely a dress box under her arm, marked Your Desire. A moment's unease struck then faded to nothing. There was no place along the street except the chain department store where she could have gotten a dress.

Your Desire must be a new line at Belk's, she told herself, at the same time marveling at how good she felt. With an actual spring in her step, she headed back to work.

* * * *

I was the laughingstock of the evening.

So went Allison's thoughts as she drove the twisty road between town and her farm. She would never understand how she'd come to buy the dress she was wearing. The thing was horrid, awful, hideous. Yes. That was the perfect description.

Strangely, when she'd gotten dressed for the evening, she hadn't thought she looked hideous at all. In fact, when she finished dressing, with her hair curled and held softly off her face with satin-finish gold barrettes, and light touches of makeup applied, she'd examined herself critically in the full length mirror. A smile had touched her lips and her eyes. She looked fine, she thought. In fact, she'd shyly admitted to herself, she felt just like Cinderella going off to the royal dance. Twirling, pretending she was in the arms of her Prince Charming, she'd closed her eyes, loving the feel of the stiff fabric as it moved, and the sound of the taffeta swishing around her legs.

Tossing the end of a wool shawl over one shoulder, she'd confidently walked to her car and driven to the landmark hotel in town where the evening's activities were taking place.

The first hint something was wrong was the look on Mary's face. The two friends hadn't found time to speak earlier, so when she arrived Mary rushed to give her a hug. Then she'd stepped back and examined Allison.

"I love the way you've done your hair," she'd finally said.

"Thanks." Allison gave a hesitant smile, then twirled for Mary as she had for herself earlier that evening. Swish, crinkle, swish went the skirt. "What do you think? Isn't the dress something?"

"Yesss, it is. Nice... I like the shawl very much."

Allison's smile disappeared. She took in the concerned look on Mary's face. Her appearance was perfect. Long blond hair curled charmingly over her shoulders. The floor-length gown, white, scattered with sprigs of lavender-colored flowers, was a shirt-waist style with a short jacket to match. All of that, plus a petite frame and face with laughing blue eyes, made Mary the very picture of a young starlet from 1955, instead of the thirty-something widow and mother of two she actually was.

Even in her normal role, Mary was beautiful and graceful, the opposite of Allison. Despite Allison's self-consciously unfavorable comparison to her friend, she and Mary had always been close.

"Oh dear, Mary. My outfit seemed just right when I got it. Do you really think it's awful?" She held out her skirt and looked down, frowning.

"No, no, of course it's not awful. Don't pay any attention to me, Allison. The dress is fine. There's just so much to it and the color is a little dark. Reminds me of autumn in Scotland instead of spring in Virginia. Actually..." Mary took a longer look at the dress, frowning in her examination "--it reminds me of that autumn I spent in Scotland after college, sampling Guinness at every pub I came to. This is the way a good many mornings looked to me." Shaking her head at the memory, she took Allison's hand. "I'm sorry. Don't worry, really, the dress is fine. Come on. Let me show you the table and what I'd like you to do."

That began the evening. Before long, Allison had endured enough long stares and quick embarrassed glances to last a lifetime. Although Mary had insisted that Allison sit at her table for dinner and drinks, when the nametags had been handed out and the hellos said, Allison slipped out and headed home.

Twenty minutes later she turned from the dark county road onto her long driveway. The headlights swept the fence and pastureland as she made the turn, catching something out of place in their beams. She stopped and backed up. A man was rising from where he'd been sitting in her pasture. Not far away, the bumper of a light-colored sports car had made a good sized dent in one of her oak trees.

"Good Lord!" She jumped out. "Mister! Mister, can you hear me? Are you all right?"

He faced her, looking dazed but uninjured, from what she could see. He made no attempt to move toward her. "Hello? I've had an accident."

"Yes, I can see that." When he still made no effort to move toward her, she got a flashlight from the glove box, heaved a sigh of resignation and gathered up the volume of skirt so she could climb the wooden fence, grateful for once that she was unable to wear heels. Then she cringed when she thought of how her beautiful velvet slippers would look by the time she trudged across the wet grass. They'd look like hell, and so would the bottom half of her dress.

"'Like hell' can only be an improvement on the dress," she muttered.

Even with the flashlight, the headlights cast eerie shadows in front of her as she carefully picked her way across the wet, ankle high grass. Despite the dew-soaked hem, she sounded like an army of taffeta-clothed soldiers crossing the field. In the quiet, the scratchy, swishy noise of the stiff material rang through the night. Except for the sound of the car engine, her dress made the only noise, since the man had said nothing else

"Are you hurt?" she asked when she reached him.

A glance to the left showed a gaping hole in the fence that would have to be repaired very quickly. Lucky the sheep are in the lower pasture, she thought, then chastised herself for thinking about her sheep when something was clearly wrong with the man standing in front of her. The very handsome man, even with the sharp angles and dark shadows on his face cast by the unnatural lighting.

"Who are you?" he asked sharply.

His tone pierced her romantic examination of his face and raised her hackles. After the night she'd already had there was no way she felt like putting up with rudeness, even rudeness due to shock.

"I'm the owner of the fence you smashed through and the tree whose trunk you gouged. Now would you mind answering my question? I'm also a nurse. I want to know if I should call 911 for an ambulance or only call the police."

He looked like he was considering her statement.

"Is your car drivable? It doesn't look too bad, actually, from what I can see. Better than my tree."

"I don't know. I didn't try."

"Well, at least you didn't back up through the huge hole you put in my fence and drive off without a leaving me a note or anything. I appreciate that." She looked him over as well as she could. No blood that she could see. He was standing and didn't show signs of being in pain, or dizzy. His color was pretty good. So what didn't seem right?

"You don't look hurt. Come on up to the house. I'll get your insurance information and we can report this to the police." She hesitated. "You haven't been drinking, have you? Because things will go a lot worse for you if you have."

"No, I haven't been drinking."

"Okay, good. Come on, then." She turned and marched back toward the car. Swish, crinkle, scratch, swish.

"Wait."

She realized he wasn't following when he called. "What?" she said, sounding only slightly less exasperated than she felt.

"I can't follow you." He roughly raked his hand through his hair and grimaced. Dropping his arm, he blew out a harsh breath. "I can't see."