Marinette pinches a length of black spun-silk embroidery floss, tugs one strand free of the others, another, threads her needle with both; she picks up the gauzy crimson silk, stabilizer and pattern and hoop already secured to the fabric, and sets the needle to flashing: up-under-down-over up-under-down-over up-under-down-over, each loop of the chain stitch held snugly in place by the last. When she's satisfied with the black, she switches to gold, six backstitched lines crossing her black outlines, a circle with detailing just outside it, and a circle around each marquise shape; then green around the circles and green crossing gold and black lines, needle point separating the two strands of each stitch with each new stitch; then her plum-blossom pink for a five-spoked star before threading a different needle to weave the thread between the spokes: the techniques are fascinating, her skill mesmerizing, the grace and speed and delicacy of her motions entrancing.

"You could wait to daydream about taking this off me until after I'm done putting it on me," Marinette says, amused, and sets aside the future négligée on which she's embroidering gold-belled and -whiskered black cats with roses between their teeth (he dared her; he hadn't thought she'd do it) to capture Adrien's hands between hers and press a gentle kiss to each knuckle in turn.