Agnes
I stared down at the sketchbook in my lap, tapping the end of my pencil against the blank page until even the sounds of the soft thuds were starting to irritate me. No matter how long I sat there, no matter how hard I tried to force inspiration to come, nothing was coming to me.
No designs, no patterns, not even a stray doodle to fill the blank page staring up at me.
I let out a soft huff and tossed my pen down. Ava’s sketches sat beside me, mocking me. I glanced at one of her designs again—a structured yet elegant winter coat with a fur-lined hood and a slim waist that flared out around the hips, both sophisticated and practical. The stitching detail alone looked like it belonged on a runway. It was beautiful.
And I hated how much I liked it.
All morning, I’d be
