Nicole

“In the glass, Constance saw not herself but a resonant symbol of who she might be. Indeed, of who she authentically was, if only she allowed herself. I am the dove, she thought, holding all the converging lines of my strength and possibility. I am the light for my children, as they are the light for me. I am the one beckoning to the one in myself yearning to be free.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“There was Brunhilde, a star shining high above the hillside behind her, dark, rippling hair hanging below her waist, standing in full command, spear in hand. Constance could not help thinking the star so large and bright might have shone over Bethlehem. She was momentarily grateful for her veil, not only for the concealment of her identity but also of her amused response to the scene before her.
She struggled to contain herself as her eyes moved to the second vignette: here was fair Juliet, standing beneath rather than on her balcony, garbed in simple lines, her head wreathed in flowers, a cross of stars high above her. Ah, those star-crossed lovers, thought Constance. Again, she was glad that she could hide her amusement. How clever these women, she thought. The third was Semiramis, a quarter moon low above the exotic turrets behind her crowned head, a long-handled fan in her hand, like the fan of a servant. How should Constance interpret this? At once she noticed the replication of the shape of Brunhilde’s spear, but it was enlarged. Semiramis, the queen who had served for her son yet had conquered her foes and enlarged her kingdom. And was this moon waxing or waning? Rising or setting? Or perhaps the enigma of a waxing moon rising. Ah, somehow that was comfort. Last, before a rising sun, framed by trees that reached out to touch one another, stood Pocahontas, her costume appearing authentic, a feather in her headdress, the emblematizing dawn of a new age, a new woman in a new world. May it be so, thought Constance.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“Beauty had emerged from her mother’s fingertips, her nimble use of needle and bright-colored thread. Beauty had lain in what sort of stitch could marry two scraps on a quilt and what other stitch mirrored a rose or a thorn or the seeded center of a sunflower.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“Now, do you want a poppy?”
“A poppy? Whatever for?”
“I’ve noticed it on your cards. Is it important?”
“Oh, the poppy. It’s quite a mixed symbol---a symbol of silence, you see. How strange. And yes, it is the symbol for the ball motif. It seems that women have grown tired of the silent, subservient role. So, they have taken that very symbol to flaunt the reversal of roles for this event.”
“Would you like to flaunt it?”
Constance froze for a moment. “I think not, Alice. I am choosing to remain silent, incognito. I don't wish to call attention to myself.” She waited while Alice seemed to puzzle over her answer.
“Perhaps all the more reason,” Alice said. “Your silence is chosen, not imposed.”
“But it would draw such attention. A bright red poppy?”
“Perhaps not. What if it were not bright red?”
“Not red?”
“There is a white poppy, with an almost black center. I noticed some once in the window of a florist in Chicago. I was mesmerized. I turned around and went in to see them. The florist was a bit outdone with me that I did not buy even one.” Alice laughed. “But it could have all sorts of meanings for you.”
“Yes, and what would those be?”
“You’ve already explained why the ladies chose it for their motif. But the white poppy with the black center would be even more meaningful. All the things you’ve said---I believe I remember this correctly---plus peace.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans