The noblewoman had inherited her family's fortune but none of their grace, a fact that made her mother sigh and her father impossible. So she'd learned to dress in ways that said 'I don't care what you think' before she opened her mouth. When she commissioned new armor, she wanted something that looked expensive without looking soft. The dyer brought out her most lush vat, burgundy deep enough to swallow light. But it was the secondary work that made the noblewoman understand. The dyer, an older woman with magnificent hands, explained that the golden accents had to be applied with a brush, strand by strand sometimes, to follow the drape of the fabric. 'Like painting,' the dyer said. 'Every bolt of cloth is different, so every application is different. I can't mass-produce this.' The noblewoman watched for hours as the dyer worked, and understood something her parents had never taught her. Luxury wasn't about having the most expensive thing. It was about having something made with absolute attention. The armor came back, and when she wore it to her next court appearance, people didn't remark on the burgundy. They noticed her, standing inside all that color, and finally understood that she'd been trying to tell them something all along...