The Dress Shop of Dreams

When is cake ever for hunger? It's for flavor and, in this case, comfort.

One proton of faith, three electrons of humility, a neutron of compassion and a bond of honesty,” Robert said, winking at his daughter. “What’s that?” Cora frowned, confused. Maggie laughed. “That, according to your father, is the molecular structure of love.

In my experience even inanimate objects have a will of their own, and they won't be found until they want to be, until they're good and ready, she says.

I can say this: don’t give up. Not on love but, more important still, not on you. Never let yourself believe that you are unlovable or flawed in any way. You deserve to be loved. You deserve kind words and an unwavering eye.

They're sitting on the floor in A Stitch in Time, surrounded on all sides by dresses of every imaginable color. Cora realizes as she glances around, her gaze flitting quickly from one wall to the next, that Etta has arranged them like the seasons: sparkling whites, grays, blacks for winter; shimmering greens and blues for spring; pinks and purples for summer; reds, oranges and yellows for autumn. Together they are breathtaking, almost too bright if stared at for too long, like falling through a rainbow lit by the sun.

Listen to that voice that tells you not to trust someone, even though he's deliciously charming, remember Wickham and Willoughby and all those cads. And give another man a chance, even though he's not your usual type - remember Mr Knightly and Colonel Brandon and all those quiet heroes.

Walt's father had been shopping with his son on a Sunday afternoon when he'd wandered into All Saints' Passage and found the bookshop. A silent boy, Walt still hadn't spoken, so there was no reason to think he'd be interested in reading yet. But when Walt snuck through the door, under his father's arm, he let out a gasp of delight. He had stepped into a kingdom: an oak labyrinth of bookshelves, corridors and canyons of literature beckoning him, whispering enchanting words Walt had never heard before. The air was smoky with the scent of leather, ink and paper, caramel-rich and citrus-sharp. Walt stuck out his small tongue to taste this new flavor and grinned, sticky with excitement. And he knew, all of a sudden and deep in his soul, that this was a place he belonged more than any other.

It's a great shame, she thinks, that the heart cannot feel joy without also feeling pain, that it cannot know love without also knowing loss.

I long for a little life, an everyday life, a splash of sunlight through a window a smile from a stranger - a heart to hold in mine.

You’re one of life’s magicians. You simply haven’t realized it yet.

Most people think this world we live in is mundane, but you remind us that it’s magical. You wrap reality in the wonder and joy of fiction, until it infuses us and becomes true.

When a woman needs courage, for example, life might throw a few things at her to draw it out. When a woman needs to love herself, she might be lonely while life leaves her without external hearts to hide in.

If two hearts truly love each other then they always will, even when they are apart. Unless they both let go. But if one holds on then it’s because the other one hasn’t yet let it go either.

I know that a heart can hold on for a lifetime, hoping for the impossible, loving, wanting what it will never have.

When is cake ever for hunger? It’s for flavor and, in this case, comfort.

With the forbidden dresses Etta didn’t even stop to consider whether they’d fit her figure or complement her coloring, and it was just the same with Joe.

You need tea and cake?" "I'm not hungry," Cora says, following Etta upstairs. "Oh, my dear." Etta laughs, the sound humming around her. "When is cake ever for hunger? It's for flavor and, in this case, comfort." Behind her grandmother, Cora smiles. They walk into the kitchen and Etta flicks on the kettle. On the counter sits a large chocolate cake, icing shining and dotted with cherries. The room is filled with the thick scent of chocolate. "It's beautiful," Cora says. "You're the best grandma a girl could hope for." "Hardly." Etta sets out two plates and begins cutting the cake. "Anyway, it's not that cherry pie you love so much, but it will have to do.

Etta sticks a small hand into a rack of crimson ball gowns and plucks out one of her loveliest creations. The bodice is made of spiderweb lace, thousands of roses embroidered over herringbone, ending at the waist with waterfalls of dark red silk cascading to the floor.

What's your name?" he asked. She'd turned to him with a deep frown, instantly terrifying him. About to turn to escape back into the bookshop, Walt was stopped by her shrug. "Cora." "That's a funny name." "It isn't, actually." Cora's frown deepened. She pulled herself up to her full height of four foot three inches. 'Officially my name is Cori, but Grandma calls me Cora. I'm named in honor of Gerty Cori, the first woman winner of the Nobel Prize in medicine. I bet you didn't know that." "No," Walt admitted, embarrassed. "I didn't." "What's your name?" "Walt," he offered quietly, expecting her to retort that his was an even sillier name, but she didn't. "After the scientist?" Walt frowned, thrown. "What scientist?" Cora shrugged. "Maybe Luis Walter Alvarez or Walter Reed, but... actually Walter Sutton is the most famous. He invented a theory about chromosomes and the Mendelian laws of inheritance." Cora let slip a little smile of satisfaction at the blank look on the boy's face. "Or maybe Walter Lewis-" "No," Walt interrupted, "I've never heard of any of them." "Oh." Cora folded her arms and tilted her nose upward. "Then who are you named after?" she asked, as if this was a given. "Walt Whitman," he retorted. "The poet.

He has always loved to read aloud, to hear words float about a room, to swim in stories and breathe in poetry. And he has a powerful voice, a beautiful voice, as deep, thick and rich as melted chocolate. Characters seem to come alive when he speaks, sliding off the page to stalk the bookshop aisles and relive their fictional lives in 3-D and Technicolor. At night, after Walt flips over the "closed" sign on the front door, he sits back behind the counter and opens doors to other worlds: bookshelves transmute into swamp trees, floors into muddy marshes, the ceiling into a purple sky cracked with lightning as he floats down the Mississippi with Huck Finn. When he meets Robinson Crusoe, the trees become heavy with coconuts, the floorboards a barren desert of sand dunes whipped by screeching winds. When he fights pirates off the coasts of Treasure Island, the floors dip and heave, the salty splash of ocean waves stings his eyes and clouds of gunpowder stain the air. As a rule Walt sticks with adventures and leaves romances untouched, preferring to escape his own aching heart rather than being reminded of it.

It happens the same way every time. The woman usually stands in front of the mirror for a while, turning this way and that, checking to be certain it isn't an illusion. And, when she is at last sure it's real, a blissful smile spreads into her cheeks and flushes through her whole body. In the mirror she sees herself as she truly is: beautiful, powerful, able to do anything. And she sees that the thing she wants most of all, the thing that seemed so impossible when she first stepped into the little dress shop, is really so possible, so close, that she could reach out and touch it. "Yes," Etta says then, "as easy as pie. Speaking of which, the bookshop on the corner does the most delicious cherry pie. You really should try some." The woman nods then, still slightly stunned, and agrees, saying that pie sounds like a perfect idea. So she stumbles out of the shop in a daze, new dress tucked tightly in her arms, and wanders down All Saints' Passage to the bookshop. There, she has the best piece of cherry pie she's ever eaten and leaves with a stack of books that will make the transformation complete.

The molecular structure of love: one proton of faith, three electrons of humility, a neutron of compassion, and a bond of honesty.

Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.’ ” “William Morris.

Sometimes acts of faith are called for in life.

The heart cannot feel joy without also feeling pain, it cannot know love without also knowing loss.

Great love only comes once in a lifetime, if you're lucky.

Solving mysteries is as much about having an open mind as keeping your eyes open. Isn’t it the same in science?

Unfortunately most magicians are immune to their own magic. We see behind the veil, we live inside the nuts and bolts, the element of surprise is lost on us. But we can help each other.

It’s already long past midnight, but she won’t sleep or stop until it’s done, because the air is always thicker with magic, faith and possibility at night.

Etta grins, compliments swallowed when she sees they’re clearly not required.