Isobel looked down at the note with the address on it, and then up at the doors on the street. The signage was practically nonexistent, as though the people who lived here already knew where everything was and had no desire to make things easier for strangers. She had never been to this part of town before, on the edge of Djurgården and near all the embassies. She passed the correct door twice before she realized that the anonymous doorway, next to the big window with nothing but a chair in it, was the atelier. She had Googled it but found nothing. When was the last time she’d heard of a business that didn’t exist online?

“Hello?” she called in through a crack in the door.

A curtain moved to one side, and a slim woman in her twenties appeared. Behind her, Isobel could see an unexpectedly large room full of fabric, mannequins, magazines, and changing rooms. Soft music and a scent she identified as fruit tea drifted out toward her.

“Hi!” The woman, who had a pincushion at her wrist and a measuring tape around her neck, held out a hand. “Isobel, right? I’m Lollo Chanel. Come in.”

She took a needle from the corner of her mouth and studied Isobel. It was a look that measured and calculated; Isobel could practically feel herself being divided up into centimeters and dimensions.

“Chanel? Really?”

Lollo shrugged. “I guess I couldn’t be anything other than a fashion designer with that name. You’re a size ten, right? Aside from your bust, I mean. I worked from the measurements you sent, so we can do the final adjustments now.”

Isobel had sent her every measurement conceivable, including her shoe size. She saw the color photo Lollo had requested pinned up on a board. So far, this was one of the most surreal experiences she’d ever had.

Lollo’s eyes continued their work, moving assessingly over Isobel’s hips. “Curves, I like that. Most of my customers haven’t eaten since 1970. Did you bring the underwear I suggested? I can’t believe that’s your natural hair color. And those freckles—I’m so happy the dress shows off so much flesh. Stand there.”

Isobel, slightly bewildered by Lollo’s rapid-fire monologue, found herself in front of a huge full-length mirror. She peered at herself, straightened her back, and pulled in her stomach as far as she could.

“Do you know Åsa Bjelke? Turn around.”

Isobel shook her head. “No, only Alexander. They are childhood friends, right?”

Lollo pulled a face. “Åsa’s one of my regulars. I’ve been bending to her will for ages, wanting to do her wedding dress for years. But now that she’s actually getting married and everyone is going, she suddenly wants a Valentino. I just couldn’t believe it. An Italian botcher instead of me.”

“But didn’t Valentino do the princess’s wedding dress?” Isobel had actually thought the fairy-tale lace dress was magical.

“Yeah, but I’m better; Åsa should know that. What do you think about a really stunning dress? I’m only asking to be polite. You’ll have a dress that’s better than anything Valentino could even dream of.”

“Is this some kind of fabric throwdown? Because if it is, I don’t think I …”

And with that, Lollo pulled out a hanger holding a bronze-colored dress, and Isobel fell silent midsentence. Not that she knew anything about haute couture, but she had never seen anything like it.

“Wow,” she eventually managed.

“Right?” Lollo replied, smugly.

She swung the hanger slightly, and the dress came to life, throwing energy out into the room, flaming color, like a barely tamed spirit.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever made, and it’s perfect for you. No one else will ever be able to wear it like you can. I found some shoes, so it’s best you take them. They’re Italian. Handmade. You’re going to be so tall.”

Lollo grinned widely, verging on the maniacal. Her hair was wild, flying in all directions, and she was covered in thread. She looked like some kind of mad, sewing genius.

“I’m not too used to walking in heels,” said Isobel.

“Doesn’t matter. Take your clothes off,” Lollo demanded, pointing to a folding screen. “There’s a slip in there.”

Isobel went behind the screen, dutifully undressed, and started to open the packaging of the delicate slip. She held it up.

“What’s it made of? Air?”

“The best silk in the world. You can’t wear pantyhose, or every single seam will be visible,” Lollo replied from the other side of the screen. “You should be wearing stockings and a garter belt, of course. It goes with the style,” she continued. Isobel could hear the pure desire in her voice. “But it just won’t work. Did you put on the underwear already?”

Isobel glanced at the thin bra and the even thinner panties she’d bought. They were silk and Lycra, practically seam-free, and they’d cost a fortune.

“I’m going to freeze,” Isobel protested. True, it was a sunny second day of May, but the temperature wasn’t much above sixty degrees.

“Probably, but it can’t be helped. This is art—you have to suffer a little. Plus, it will look good if your nipples are pert. It’s sexy.”

Isobel quickly pulled on the thin pieces of underwear and wondered when she’d last worn a G-string. It was the single most idiotic piece of clothing she knew of, but Lollo had demanded a silk thong, and Isobel had done as she said, because she was enough of a woman to want to look good in the most expensive clothing she’d ever wear.

She pulled on the thin slip. “I’m done,” she said hesitantly. She felt more naked now that she was wearing the new underwear.

“Come out,” Lollo ordered.

“I’m going into the field in two weeks,” she said apologetically as she came out from behind the screen’s blessed protection. She held a hand over her stomach, feeling more like a teenager with body issues than a cosmopolitan doctor. “I always bulk up a little. And haven’t been working out as much as I should.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re magnificent, and you’re going to look like a goddess in my dress. Every woman deserves to recognize that side of herself at least once. You just have to go with the flow, my pretty.” Lollo took down the dress, and Isobel felt a rush of something close to desire. How was it possible to feel that for a bit of fabric? She held out a hand, brushed the bronze-colored silk. She let Lollo help her into the dress.

Lollo took a step back. “My God, I’m about to start wailing, woman.”

Isobel looked in the mirror. The dress did something to her body. There were no visible imperfections, just her best assets being shown off. Her skin glowed like white silk, her freckles were gorgeous and unique, her eyes enormous, and her stomach vanished; she was nothing but breasts, legs, and a phenomenal waist. “Pass me the shoes too,” she said, suddenly greedy. She was going to a society wedding, and she was going to have a fabulous time.

Lollo helped her to carefully spray her hair and shape the curls into a film-star style. Isobel touched up her lips and checked that her makeup was still as it should be. Lollo handed her a shawl to put around her shoulders. “But only in the church,” she instructed. “This isn’t the kind of dress you wear with some modest shawl, understood?”

Isobel nodded obediently.

“What do you think of these?” she then asked. She had, on a complete whim, brought a collection of cheap, beautiful bracelets she’d once bought in the field, shining and Amazonesque in their golden and bronzed tones. They gleamed like a sunset over an African desert. With a single look, Lollo gave her approval.

“Good luck, beautiful. Your car’s here. You show ’em!”

Isobel took a taxi to Stockholm Cathedral in the Old Town. The surrounding water glittered as the car passed the Royal Castle before it pulled up right outside the cathedral. The Great Church was one of Stockholm’s oldest, built in the thirteenth century. The ceremony would take place at three, and the guests had already started to stream in. She paid the taxi and stepped out, cautious on her sky-high heels. The cobblestones were ancient and uneven, and she took a couple of careful steps. This was historical ground, the site of coronations, royal weddings, and royal funerals. People in formal attire were gathering, blue carpets had been laid out, and huge urns with flower arrangements framed the entrance to the church.

Cars were constantly arriving; she saw people she vaguely recognized from the gossip rags. Actors, musicians, and sports stars.

“Hi, Isobel.”

She turned toward the voice and saw a familiar face. She smiled at Natalia De la Grip—or Natalia Hammar, these days—and took a few steps forward.

“Great you could come,” said Natalia. It sounded like she really meant it.

“Thanks,” said Isobel, pulling the shawl up over her shoulders.

“Did you come with Alexander?”

“No.”

He had offered to pick her up, but the rebellious part of her had refused. She wasn’t a birdbrain. She could make her way to a church on her own. But now, as she glanced around, Isobel wondered whether she shouldn’t have said yes after all. No matter where she looked, she saw couples, couples, couples. Maybe there were no single people in the upper classes? “Jesus, so many celebrities,” she said.

“Yeah, Åsa and Michel have a huge network,” Natalia said, gesturing discreetly to a man Isobel recognized as a former president of the United States. Impressive.

“He was friends with Åsa’s father. And her, over there …” Natalia nodded her head toward a woman dressed in blue. She looked distinctly British, in a royal kind of way. “She was a close friend of her mother’s. Both of Åsa’s parents are dead.” Natalia waved to a large bearded man who had arrived with a stunning blonde dressed in a body-hugging dress. Even Isobel, completely uninterested in sports, knew he was a famous ice hockey player. “Friend of Michel’s,” said Natalia. And so it continued.

The elite of the elite poured in, along with those Isobel didn’t recognize, whom Natalia identified on her behalf. When one of the royals arrived with their partner, the press photographers practically started a riot. A couple of super-rich financiers. “Åsa and Michel pretty much know everyone who’s rich, famous, and in their thirties,” Natalia said laconically as yet another blond corporate princess turned up with her husband. Natalia named a few more counts and countesses. Funnily enough, Isobel recognized some of them from Skåne, but these were a younger, even more glamorous group, if that was possible.

“And this is David, my husband,” said Natalia. Isobel smiled at the pride in Natalia’s voice as she turned to the man headed toward them.

Isobel greeted David, who gave quite an overwhelming impression, and then peered down at the little baby balanced comfortably in the crook of his arm.

“This is Molly,” said Natalia, and their eyes met in understanding.

“A little miracle,” said Isobel softly. Tenderly she touched the baby’s head. Every baby was a miracle, but Molly was special and Isobel was truly happy for Natalia. Their first meeting had been kind of dramatic. Natalia had been an angry, hurt, and very unexpectedly pregnant patient of hers, and Isobel had not been all that sure that it would work out in the end. But it had. And Natalia looked truly happy. “I’m so glad for all of you.”

“Thank you,” said Natalia. She squeezed Isobel’s arm. “And how wonderful that you are here. With Alexander.”

Isobel could feel the younger woman’s palpable curiosity, but Natalia was obviously much too well-bred to straight-out ask what was going on between her brother and her once physician. And Isobel didn’t offer any explanation, didn’t even know where she would have begun.

Suddenly, Isobel felt something pass across her skin. It started as a low hum in the small of her back, shot up her spine, and spread outward, making her tingle. Natalia’s attention was on David now, and Isobel closed her eyes, letting the sensation wash over her. It felt as though she were being recharged from within. She had never thought it was possible to feel a look. But now she did.

She opened her eyes and turned around, slowly, tossed her hair slightly so that her curls and tresses cascaded around her shoulders and back. She straightened up, making herself as tall as possible in her high, Italian shoes. And she met Alexander’s gaze, saw how his eyes dilated when he caught sight of her over the cobblestones and the ancient square.

His eyes shone, and Isobel felt herself being drawn in. She flashed him a smile, gave all she had, all that she had been born with but so seldom used.

His gaze was fixed; he just stared at her, as if she were some kind of goddess. And for a brief while, she was.

It was one of the better moments in her life.