The gossamer silk fabric of the dress draped over the high tip of the mannequin's breast in storm cloud blue, and merged into lavender at the waist. The two colors joined hands to dance and whirl in the folds of the skirt, so light it shimmered in stillness. The colors reminded Meg of the touch of a sunrise on ocean waves. The dress transformed the mannequin into a silver skinned goddess, frozen in the peace of perfection.

"A long time ago, when we believed in fairy tales," warm breath and a familiar, timbered voice filled her ear, "A legion of fairy seamstresses wove this dress for their beloved princess."

Meg turned her head, but the voice moved to her left shoulder, evading her. "The dress was stolen by a jealous mortal woman," it continued. "She couldn't wear it, of course, because fairy clothing can only be worn by a fairy.

She tried to destroy it, but it was magic, and couldn't be destroyed."

Meg tried turning her body. Hands, so strong her muscles could not tense against their grip, came down on her shoulders, made her face the dress. "The jealous woman finally put the dress here," lips brushed her ear, "In the least magical place she could imagine. The princess can only retrieve her dress by becoming mortal. But if she does that, the crush of mortal pain will destroy her fragile, fairy heart."

"There's not a lot of hope in your story," Meg murmured.

"That depends on whether or not you believe magic can happen in a mall." The hands released her and Meg turned to look up into a stranger's eyes.