Sequins, Secrets, and Silver Linings by Sophia Bennett Page B

quite as loose and dreamy as the things Crow’s been designing so far. It’s going to have a very fitted bodice and a skirt with lots of petticoats. (“Very New Look,” in Granny’s happy opinion. As in 1940s Dior.) Skye and Crow go on an extended shopping trip to find the perfect silk to make it with and Jenny writes an ENORMOUS check for the fabric.
    By the time we come back, Crow will only have two weeks to make the dress. But she seems, as ever, relaxed about managing it. I still can’t quite believe we’re relyingon a twelve-year-old to rescue Jenny from her fashion nightmares. But the worst that can happen is that she’ll look incredibly stupid on the red carpet and the boy she fancies won’t talk to her and thousands of people will write nasty things about her in magazines and on the Internet.
    And all that’s already happened.

    I had all sorts of plans for the rest of the summer—loads of friends to see, an outdoor music festival to go to, and a couple of very promising parties. But this was before Crow took over my life. Granny’s house is in the depths of the country and there isn’t a café or a cinema for miles. The nearest villagers probably wouldn’t know a smoothie if it was piped through the tap. I predict being so thoroughly bored that I’m reduced to packing next fall’s Eng Lit syllabus so I can start on my reading.
    Crow’s satchel is even heavier than my bag, and once I’ve carried it in from the car to her new room, I simply have to peek inside. It turns out she’s brought her Singer sewing machine. I think it’s her version of a teddy bear. And there’s the history of the House of Dior. She’s on chapter two.
    Granny’s home is enormous, old, and crumbly. There are, for example, nine rooms that could be bedrooms,although only five of those have beds in them, and only three of those have beds in them that you might ever want to sleep in. It was great for riding our bikes indoors when Harry and I were small, but once you’ve done things like wash your granny’s old tights in the sink in the laundry room, it tends to lose its charm. It’s also freezing, even in August. I’m glad I’ve brought a couple of Crow’s magic Arctic-cobweb sweaters. They’re superwarm and make the stay possible. I think she owes me this at least.
    Most of the downstairs rooms are grand, but when we visit we tend to live in the kitchen, which was last decorated in 1972, when Granny had some spare cash that wasn’t required for “basics” like Roger Vivier evening slippers. I last visited the attics when I was about five and had no idea that two of the rooms (there are several) are floor-to-ceiling cotton bags, carefully labeled, stuffed with couture.
    This is irritating. I’ve been asking Granny for books on Saint Laurent, Vionnet, and all the greats since I was tiny, and it is a known family fact that I am more than slightly interested in fashion—in fact it’s practically the only thing I know anything about. Yet it’s never occurred to Granny to mention that she PRACTICALLY OWNS A MUSEUM OF THE STUFF. She says casually over dinnerone evening that “being interested isn’t enough, darling. You have to be able to do something with it. Otherwise, I’d have every fashion student in the country over here, rummaging through my things.”
    It’s true. She would.
    Crow is delicate and meticulous. She doesn’t rummage. Each day, while Granny and I play cards and read, she goes up to the attics like she’s climbing the staircase to heaven and carefully removes half a dozen outfits from their coverings. Her long fingers delicately trace the fabrics, the trimmings, the embroidery, the seams. She’s allowed to pick one outfit a day that Granny will try on for her. Granny, needless to say (and she often does), can still get into her wedding dress and anything else she wore in her twenties. She looks a bit scrawnier than she probably did then, but the fit isn’t bad.
    “I would have handed them