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Erica blinked. “The dress? Or me?”

“I know,” Queenie said, handing her a cherry-red button for her lapel. “That’s the part you keep.”

Queenie smiled, running a finger over the velvet’s nap. “Same thing, honey. You’re both just pieces waiting for the right seam.”

Queenie Sateen had one rule for her studio: no scraps left behind. So when Erica Cherry walked in with a torn gown and a broken heart, Queenie didn't offer tea or sympathy. She offered a table.