Monsieur Henri, in the meantime, is saying, “Madame, I know. This is not the first time. I see this often.”

I try to keep out of the way, and sidle up to Madame Henri, who is watching the drama unfold from the curtained doorway to the workroom at the back of the shop.

“What’s happening?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “They went to Maurice” is all she says in way of reply.

Which of course tells me nothing. I still don’t have the slightest idea who Maurice is.

But then Monsieur Henri reaches into the box, and carefully pulls out a long-sleeved, virginal, fragile-as-gossamer-looking white gown.

At least, it used to be white. The lace has turned a sickening shade of yellow.

“He promised!” the woman is saying. “He promised the preservation box would keep it from yellowing!”

“Of course he did,” Monsieur Henri says, in a dry tone. “And when you took it back to show him, he told you that the reason it turned this color was because you broke the preservation seal.”

“Yes!” The woman’s chin is trembling, she’s so upset. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said! He said it was my fault, for allowing air inside the box!”

I let out an involuntary sound of protest. Monsieur Henri glances in my direction. I immediately blush, and take a quick step backward.

But Monsieur Henri has fastened his blue-eyed gaze at me and isn’t looking away.

“Mademoiselle?” he asks. “There is something you wish to say?”

“No,” I say quickly, aware that Madame Henri is staring daggers at me. “I mean, not really.”

“I think there is.” Monsieur Henri’s eyes are very bright. He can’t see anything close up without his glasses. But his farsightedness is uncanny. “Go on. What is it that you wish to say?”

“Only,” I begin reluctantly, fearing I might be saying something he won’t like, “that storing textiles in a sealed container can actually harm them, especially if moisture gets in. It can cause the material to mildew.”

Monsieur Henri, I see, looks pleased. This gives me the courage to continue. “Not one of the historic costumes at the Met is stored in an airtight room,” I go on. “And they’re doing just fine. It’s important to keep old fabric out of direct sunlight—but there’s no way breaking the seal on a preservation box caused the yellowing on that dress. That was caused by improper cleaning before storage… most likely the result of the gown not having been cleaned at all, and stains from champagne or perspiration being left untreated.”

The smile Monsieur Henri bequeaths me upon my concluding this recitation is dazzling enough to cause his wife to suck in her breath…

… and throw me a look of surprise. It’s clear she’s reassessing her “stupid” remark from earlier in the week.

“But how can that be?” the woman asks, her brow furrowed. “If the gown was cleaned before it was put in storage—”

“God, Mom,” the girl interrupts, sounding disgusted. “Don’t you get it? That Maurice guy didn’t clean it. He just stuck it in there, put the lid on, and gave it back,saying he’d cleaned it.”

“And told you never to open the box,” Monsieur Henri adds. “That breaking the seal would cause the material to yellow—and void your money-back guarantee.” Making a tsk-tsking noise, Monsieur Henri looks down at the dress he’s holding. Which, I have to say, is not the nicest gown I’ve ever seen. I mean, it’s okay.

But if the reason the older woman broke the seal on the box in which the gown had been preserved was so that her daughter could wear it to her wedding, well, she was in for a surprise. Because I couldn’t see Miss Blowout putting on that high-necked, Victorian-looking thing for all the Suzy Perettes in the world.

“I have seen this a thousand times,” Monsieur Henri says sadly. “It is such a shame.”

The older woman looks alarmed. “Is it ruined?” she wants to know. “Can it be saved?”

“I don’t know,” Monsieur Henri says dubiously. I can see that he’s playing them. All the dress needs is a nice white-vinegar soak and maybe a cold-water wash with some OxiClean.

“Gee, that’s too bad,” Blowout says, before Monsieur Henri can say anything more. “I guess we’ll just have to get a new dress.”

“We are not getting you a new dress, Jennifer,” Big Hair snaps. “This dress was good enough for me, and good enough for each of your sisters. It’s good enough for you!”

Jennifer looks mutinous. Monsieur Henri doesn’t need to put on his glasses to see this. He hesitates, and it’s clear he’s not certain how to proceed. Madame Henri clears her throat.

But I jump in, before she can say a word, with, “The stains can be removed. But that’s not the real problem, is it?”

Jennifer is looking at me suspiciously. So, actually, is everyone in the shop.

“Elizabeth,” Monsieur Henri says, using my first name for the first time in our acquaintance—and in a sugary-sweet voice I know is completely fake, too. He clearly wants to kill me. “There is no problem.”

“Yes, there is,” I say, in a voice just as fakey as his. “I mean, look at that dress, and then look at Jennifer here.” Everyone in the shop glances at the dress, then at Jennifer, who preens a little, sweeping back the stick-straight ends of her blowout. “Do you see the problem now?”

“No,” Jennifer’s mother says bluntly.

“This dress was probably very flattering on you, Mrs. — ” I pause and look questioningly at Jennifer’s mom, who says, “Harris.”

“Right,” I say. “Mrs. Harris. Because you’re a statuesque woman, with excellent carriage. But look at Jennifer. She’s very petite. A dress with this much material will overwhelm her.”

Jennifer narrows her eyes and scissors a glance in her mother’s direction. “See?” she hisses. “I told you.”

“Er, uh,” Monsieur Henri blusters uncomfortably, still looking as if he wants to kill me. “In point of fact, Mademoiselle Elizabeth is not, er, technically speaking, an employee of—”

“But this gown could easily be altered to flatter someone of Jennifer’s proportions,” I say, pointing to the high neckline, “merely by opening up this area here, giving it more of a sweetheart neckline, and maybe getting rid of the sleeves—”

“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Harris says. “It’s a Catholic ceremony.”

“Then tightening the sleeves,” I go on smoothly, “so that they don’t bell. A girl with a figure as good as Jennifer’s shouldn’t hide it. Especially on a day when she wants to look her best.”

Jennifer has been listening to all of this intently. I can tell because she’s stopped fiddling with her hair.

“Yeah,” she says. “See, Mom? That’s what I told you.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Harris murmurs, chewing her lower lip. “Your sisters—”

“Are you the youngest?” I asked Jennifer, who nodded. “Yeah, I thought so. Me, too. It’s hard being the youngest, always getting your big sisters’ hand-me-downs. You get to a point where you’d just die to have something—anything—new, something all your own.”

“Exactly!”Jennifer explodes.

“But in the case of your mother’s wedding gown, you can have that,” I say, “and still observe family tradition by wearing it… you just have to give it a few tweaks to make it uniquely your own. And we can easily do that here—”

“I want that,” Jennifer says, turning to her mother. “What she said. That’s what I want.”

Mrs. Harris looks from the gown to her daughter and then back again. Then she lets out a little laugh and says, “Fine! Whatever you want! If it’s cheaper than a new gown—”

“Oh,” Madame Henri steps forward to say, “it will be, of course. If the young lady would like to come with me to change, we can begin measuring for the alterations right away… ”

Jennifer flicks her blowout back and, without another word, follows Madame Henri to the dressing room.

“Oh,” Mrs. Harris cries, after glancing at her watch. “I have to go put money in the meter if we’re staying. Excuse me—”

She hurries out of the shop. As soon as the door eases shut behind her, Monsieur Henri turns to me and, indicating the yellowed dress he’s still holding, says hesitantly, “You are quite adept with the, er, customer.”