A large foreboding clock sent a black rhythm resonating through a small room, dim with candle light. It guided a deft pale hand in a well known pattern, graceful and practiced. A sharp needle pulled and pierced carrying the string to its destined place; manicured fingers dictated its path, each stitch perfect and précis.
A beauty commanded fabric and frill, turning piles of soft nothing into elegant wear, fit only for the proud and noble. The glow from her white skin made silk shine, and a smile pulled at black lips as the piece took form. The gown was lavender, muted and flattering, curved for a body the maker knew well; the cloth, layered and simple, had sleeves made for movement and dancing. Many nights spent in patterns and stitching, a craft of patience and grace.
A long metal hand was joined with its brother, and an echoing ring fell on sharp ears, the hands pause their crafting.
The night was no longer young, but it didn't matter. Life was given and the gown was done.
Green eyes washed proudly over layers of purple and black, lingering on coiling Jade roses along the hem. Another soft smirk pulled at her lips.
Yes, this was a beautiful dress for her beautiful Queen.