In a parlor filled with lush plants and golden light, young seamstress Elodie quietly stitched lace to silk by hand. Across from her, Lady Vivienne leaned in, her hands clasped and her pale green walking dress still dusted from the garden path. “You mustn’t breathe a word,” she whispered, eyes scanning the room for unseen ears. Elodie didn’t press for details—she never did. Her skill wasn’t only in her needlework, but in listening without questions. Her hands moved steadily, each stitch sealing not just the hem, but the confidence placed quietly in her care.
