The day began not with getting ready but with a pillow fight. A room with sand-coloured walls and heavy grey curtains, and on the wall a panel of red birds and flowers on a pale ground. Yulia and Kirill in striped pyjamas, barefoot on the sofa, green velvet cushions going into action. Nobody is hurrying anybody.
Then Yulia was left alone in the room. The dress — dense ivory, sleeveless, a skirt that holds its own shape; embroidered morning glories and lilies wind across it, orange with dark veins, on green stems. She stood by that same panel, and it became clear: the flowers on the wall and the flowers on the dress speak one language. The rest of the day was built around them.










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