Iris
“Arms up, please, Miss Willford.”
I raise my arms dutifully as Violetta, the most sought-after human designer in Ordan, circles me with pins held between her lips. Her assistant hovers nearby, clutching a pincushion and looking nervous, as if expecting me to suddenly collapse under the weight of the fabric that’s draped around my frame.
I don’t blame her; this gown is f*****g enormous.
“A little higher, please,” Violetta murmurs around her pins. “I need to check the draping on the bodice.”
I stretch my arms higher, my shoulders already aching from holding still for so long. We’ve been at this for over two hours now, and I’m starting to lose feeling in my feet. But I don’t complain—not when the gown is finally nearly finished after weeks of planning.
My debut go
