Mary-Anne can't believe she can finally do this. She stands on the pavement under a small elegant sign that simply reads 'Sasha's Bridal'. Under it, in even smaller letters, it proclaims that all fittings are by appointment only. She marches up to the door, book under one arm, and the bell tinkles merrily and tastefully as she enters. The woman, Sasha Cook, looks up from behind the counter, and frowns as she takes in Mary-Anne's rumpled appearance. "May I help you?" she asks, distaste dripping from her voice. Mary-Anne can't help but smile.

"No, but I can help you." She slides the book across the counter. "I want a job. And you're going to give me one." For the past twenty eight years she's been living the delusion that she's a trust fund baby. Now, now she can actually work again. The woman perches the glasses that hang around her neck on a fine gold chain upon her nose and opens the book. By the second page she's absorbed, making little noises under her breath.

"These are amazing designs," Ms. Cook says. "Were you... Are you a seamstress?" Pride lifts Mary-Anne's chin.

"I am a couturier." And I miss it, with all my heart. "I've worked for most of the royals and nobles of the kingdom. It was an honour to have clothing designed and worked by my hands." Ms. Cook is a little taken aback by the vehemence in Mary-Anne's voice, but she gives a thoughtful nod.

"Alright. You can start a trial here, if you like." Mary-Anne snorts.

"No. You'll hire me, at forty percent over minimum, with a five - no, make that ten percent commission on every sale."

"Full of yourself, aren't you?" Ms. Cook snaps, her spine straightening.

"Trust me. Put one of those designs in the window and you'll have more custom than you can handle. Do we have a deal?" She offers her hand, and, with a sour expression, Ms. Cook shakes it. "Right. Now. Where do I learn how to use a sewing machine?" Ms. Cook blinks, then gives a high laugh.

"You don't know how to use one?"

"I've been one of the idle rich for the past twenty eight years. I can sew by hand, but I'm pretty sure you'll want something by the end of the day." She is almost dancing with impatience to get started.

"Alright," the other woman replies, then flicks back through the book. She leaves it open at a page and points. "I want this. The machines are in the back. Come on." Mary-Anne picks up the book and follows her, glancing down at Ms. Cook's selection. Of course. Snow White's wedding gown. As they pass through the swinging doors, Mary-Anne smiles in anticipation.

Three days later, the windows of the shop hold not one, but three of her gowns – ones she originally designed for Snow White, Cinderella and the one her mother had designed for Regina's wedding to King Leopold. She'd had to argue with Ms. Cook to make that one. Sasha Cook didn't believe that it was appropriate, but Mary-Anne had the bit between her teeth, so to speak, and won the argument by sheer volume. It is late evening, and Mary-Anne is just leaving when she bumps into a young man standing on the pavement with a dazed expression on his face.

"I'm sorry," she begins to apologise, and then she recognises him. It's David Nolan, or Prince James, what ever he wants to be called, and he's staring at the feathery, sleeveless gown with an expression filled with such love, longing and hope that Mary-Anne's heart breaks for him. She mutters another apology and turns to go as she sees a single tear track down his cheek, leaving the man alone with his thoughts and his grief.

"Wait," he calls after her. "I remember you. You made this, for Snow. You made a suit for me, too, for our... Our day."

"Yes, I did," she replies. He turns his eyes back to the window, and his voice is soft as he speaks to the glass.

"Did you ever see a more beautiful bride?" Mary-Anne smiles.

"I think that wasn't just the dress, your Highness."

"Will you... Will you keep it? For her? For when I find her and bring her back?" Mary-Anne smiles again and dares to gently pat his arm.

"No one else will wear that dress but your wife. I promise." Ms. Cook was going to scream, but Mary-Anne will pay for it herself if need be, if only to keep that little spark alive in James' eyes. He nods, and swipes away the tear.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Highness."