For those who are new, The Butterfly Dress is a story about Flora, a girl trapped in dismal job as a seamstress and dressmaker to her cruel mother. Although she dreams of designing gowns in New York or Paris, she is forced to settle for creating prom dresses for local girls while attending class at the local college. When she receives the chance to design the Coronation Queen’s gown for a local ball, magical things begin to happen. As she dives deeper into the ball’s mysterious past and its handsome prince, it’s a pair of shoes that might lead her to her final destiny.

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She should have never gone to class.

Flora knew from the second she stepped into the classroom, buzzing with angry tension, every seat draped with the thick fog of fear.  Her footsteps pounded against the tile as she climbed the never ending stairs to her seat.  Pressing her lips together, Flora winced as her seat betrayed her with a loud groan and indignant metallic shriek.  Hidden in the shadows of the front corner, Miss Tuttlesworth shot her a look of terror.  She pointed to Professor Skippy, slamming her notes against the podium, and drew her finger across her throat.

Slowly pulling her notebook out of her bag, she slammed her head against the desk when Professor Skippy barked: “FLORA!”

Reeling back as the room dipped and bobbed around her, Flora grabbed the back of her head.  “Yes ma’am?”

“Come to the front of the room and show us an example of what you’ve been working on.”  Even from the back row, she could see the manic gleam in her teacher’s eyes.

Flora gulped.  “You mean our dream dress, ma’am?  The one that’s due next week?”

“I know when it’s due,” the teacher snapped.  “I assigned it.  What I want to see is one of the Coronation gowns you’ve been designing.  Either the Queen’s gown or Eleanor Nottingham’s.”

Every student gasped except Flora, who felt like all the air had been sucked out the room.  She gripped onto her desk, sweat running down her back.  “I can’t do that, ma’am.”

“And why not?” Professor Skippy’s teeth gnashed together.  Behind her, Miss Tuttlesworth’s head whipped back and forth.

Flora’s fingers turned white as she tightened her grip, her fingertips slick on the cheap plastic edges of the desk.  “Ma’am, those dresses are to remain confidential until they’re unveiled at the Coronation.  If I showed them to the class, no client would ever trust me again.”  As shocked whispers raced across the rows, Flora raised her trembling chin.  “I could show you debutante gowns I’ve designed, or prom gowns.”  As Professor’s eyes narrowed, brilliance tapped her shoulder as faintly as a butterfly.  “Actually, ma’am, I could show you Astrid’s original gown.”

The professor cocked her head, an eyebrow lifted.  “Her original gown?  You’ve made two?”  She snorted.  “Was the first one that bad?”

As the class tittered, Flora tightened her jaw.  “No ma’am.  She just decided to go a different direction.”

“I see,” Professor Skippy purred.  Crooking her finger, she beckoned for Flora to join her at the podium.  “Show us that gown, then.”

Sliding her hand across the back of her slick neck and wiping it on her skirt, Flora slid a few sketches out of her book.  Her thick shoes lumbered down the steps, every move followed by dozens of curious and jealous eyes.  Her shirt stuck to her lower back, her waistband damp and sagging.  She could only pray for a monsoon on the way to the Nottingham Estate, the only thing that would keep her from smelling like a week-old gym sock.

Professor Skippy snatched the sketches out of her hand, slapping them down on the overhead display.  Twisting around to see her work stretched across the white screen, Flora met Miss Tuttlesworth’s terrified eyes.

“It’s very…pink.”  Professor Skippy smirked.  “Very Barbie.”   She hesitated, zooming the display in on Flora’s carefully sketched bodice.  “But…” she admitted, her lower lip curled, “It’s very good.  It would have been a gorgeous gown.”  As the warm blush of affirmation crept over Flora’s cheeks, blooming into a smile, Professor Skippy’s dark eyes snapped.  “However, class, there is something Flora did wrong.  Can anyone see it?”

Refusing to look up, Flora tried not to squirm as she felt the eyes bore into her; the rivers of sweat flowing down her arms and dripping off her fingertips.  She was naked, her passion exposed and vulnerable.

And she knew she was about to be ripped to shreds.

One of the perfect tiny blond debutantes raised her hand.  “Lack of orginality?”

“Too much detail?” Another ventured.

“Too intricate?” A third guessed, shooting Flora a triumphant glance.  Flora pretended not to see, her toes clinging to her thick socks as they too, squirmed.

“No.”  The word was a shot of disdain.  “Flora’s work was perfect, except for one thing: her signature.”  The professor whipped the sketches off the display, flinging them at Flora.  As she bent to collect them, Professor Skippy laid her own sketch on the display.    Gathering the papers, Flora glanced up and blanched.  She knew who that dress was for.  There was only one person in the world who would have thought that combination of colors was gorgeous.

“I was recently asked to design a gown for Heather Oak, who owns the Golden Needle.”  Professor Skippy’s voice dripped with disdain as Flora hurried to her feet, avoiding even Miss Tuttlesworth’s sympathetic glance as she rushed back toward her seat, her feet thudding heavily up the stairs.  “Flora’s mother.  Anyway, every good designer has their own signature that can be seen in any one of their dresses.  Mine is always the bodice–I always use a pattern and sweetheart neckline.  Flora’s dresses, while gorgeous, lack that signature.”  Gloating, her face glowed in the display light.  “Now let’s talk about your dream dresses….”

***

After hours of sewing and a tasteless salad with barely any dressing, Flora wearily slipped out of the servant’s entrance door of the Nottingham estate.  That’s what she was, after all.  Just a fat, homely servant, perfect for creating gowns but not perfect for wearing them.  Staring up at the stars, she felt as through their light was shining through her, bursting through the pinpricks Eleanor’s criticism had made in her thin skin.  With a sigh, she started through the gardens toward her cottage.  Every step felt like a eternity.

“Flora!”  She turned, her face drawing into a forced smile.

“Mr. Grissom.”  She bobbed in a mock-curtsy.  “Working late like me?”

“Actually, I was waiting for you.”  The gardener shifted.  “I know I scared you the other day.”

“You’re pretty terrifying,” Flora admitted.

He winced, running a weathered hand through the remnants of his hair.  “I’m sorry about that.  I just worry about you.  The Nottinghams…well, it’s easy to feel like you’re one of them. But they’re different.  They’re not like us.”  He shifted.  “Your grandmother forgot and….well, I like you.  I’d hate to see you embarrassed or…”  He trailed off.  “Anyway, I planted some new flowers in your garden.  I hope you like them.”  Before she could say anything, he slipped away, sliding into the shadows with only the rustling leaves to mark his departure.

Stunned, Flora stood for a moment.  Then suddenly, she narrowed her eyes.  Her sore feet forgotten, she hurried across the garden, only one thing on her mind.

From a single lighted window, suspicious eyes watched her.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new story tomorrow!

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