Miranda hummed as she read Andrea's latest piece in the Mirror. She was surprised that the woman had chosen to write a fluff piece on fashion after seven years as a heavy hitting issues reporter. Now there was this piece about an up and coming designer who no one knew anything about. She kicked herself mentally as she read about the designer, and how little they actually knew about her. If it even was a her. The single accompanying sketch told Miranda everything she needed to know. She was going to hunt this designer down and feature them in a full spread in the next issue of Runway. That was all there was to it.

"Emily! Come!" she called out, pulling off her glasses and sucking on the arm as she stared at the sketch.

"Yes, Miranda?" the woman asked, trying to appear placid. Miranda, though, could read her like a book, and knew that she was wondering what was going on.

"I need you to do some digging for me. Keep Allison on the phones all day, and if she needs assistance, call in Hazel."

Emily weaved a little on her feet, obviously trying to figure out what Miranda was leading up to. "All right. But what sort of digging am I going to be doing, Miranda?"

"There's a new designer on the scene, and I want to know everything about them by the end of the workday today. Here, the name is Snowflake Designs, and no one knows who is behind the line. Your job is to suss that out for me. And if you don't…"

She let the veiled threat hang in the air, and Emily nodded as she gulped, turning on her heel and scurrying back out to her desk. As Miranda watched, she sent off a rapid fire message to Allison, and then bent over her keyboard, obviously wanting to get straight to work. A wry smile crossed her lips as she leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs atop her desk as she picked the newspaper up once more, staring at the dress. It was elegant, timeless, and Miranda had to have it. And there was one person who could get her close to that goal, the one person she felt disinclined to talk to ever again.

Wrinkling her nose a bit, she slid her legs off the desk and strode over to the door, closing it with a forceful click. She only hoped that she could keep a tight enough rein on her emotions so as not to raise her voice above a measured tone. Taking a deep breath, she pulled out her personal cell phone and scrolled through her contact list.

There, towards the bottom, was her name, and her finger hovered above it, as if she were unable to just take that simple step and talk to the woman. "For God's sake, Miranda, it's just a simple phone call, at her place of work. It's not like you're going to proposition her."

The words seemed to steel her nerves and she pressed Andrea's work number. It rang three times before she heard a familiar, harried, voice. "Sachs speaking."

"Andrea. This is Miranda Priestly. I just saw the article that you wrote in the Mirror this morning, and I simply must pick your brain about it. How about we lunch at Smith & Wollensky? Say at eleven?"

There was a slight pause before Andrea spoke once more. "Miranda, they don't open until half past the hour."

"They don't for the plebeians, Andrea. How many times did I have to tell you that when you worked for me. When you're someone like me, you can get what you want. And I always get what I want."

There was a slight catch in her voice as she thought about the one thing that had gotten away from her, the person on the other end of the line. And she was waiting with almost bated breath for the answer. "Fine. If it will get you out of my hair sooner, I will lunch with you. See you in a few."

Andrea had hung up before Miranda could respond. Arching an eyebrow, she dialed the number for Smith & Wollensky, arranging for them to be ready for them at eleven. As soon as she hung up with them, she looked up into Emily's wide eyes. "And what can I do for you?" she quietly said, trying to make certain that her face was a mask of indifference.

"Why are you even interested in this designer, Miranda? You cannot possibly be interested in a designer who makes clothes for fat people! If this gets out, it will ruin the credibility of Runway. Is that really what you want?"

Emily's voice had risen to levels that only dogs could hear, and Miranda cut her off with a wave of her hand, indicating for her to sit. "Whatever are you going on about, Emily?" she asked, her voice dropping a few octaves in an attempt to calm the woman.

"I looked up this Snowflake Designs. It seems that her first line was not only for plus size women, it was garish and full of hideous color and patterns. I called the website up on my iPad so that you could see for yourself the travesty that is this, this, dreck."

Miranda fought not to roll her eyes at the woman's over the top histrionics and held out her hand expectantly. Emily slapped the tablet down onto her palm and then sank down in the seat, forgetting about her posture as she pouted. "They named their first line 'Penelope'," she murmured as she looked at the cacophony of color. There was something whimsical and gorgeous in the chaos, something that Miranda hadn't seen on any runway in ages. "This collection was designed with one person in mind, and if I were a gambling woman, I would bet that this woman is named Penelope."

A low groan erupted from Emily's throat before she could stop it. "That is practically impossible, you realize. There are millions of people named that!"

Miranda pursed her lips and tried not to shake her head. "Why don't you first try a nominal Google search? I'm certain that there are not millions upon millions of women named Penelope in the states. That's all."

Emily's entire boy slumped more before she stiffly stood up, giving Miranda a stiff nod before she clacked from the room. And it took everything in Miranda not to cackle with unmitigated glee when her first assistant growled at Allison before furiously tapping away on her keyboard. "Fine, it's twenty thousand! I will be looking for the proverbial needle for ages!" she loudly said moments later, and still, Miranda kept herself under control, not wanting to give away how much pleasure this little exercise was giving her.

Sighing, she picked up the tablet once more and scrolled through the collection. There was something pricking at the back of her mind the longer she gazed at the models, and then it hit her. They were all wearing cat's eye glasses, another little quirk of this collection. And it made her wonder if the muse in question would also be wearing glasses. "Emily," she smoothly called out, "something that might help your search. The Penelope in question will be wearing glasses, and most likely they will be in the same style as the models."

This just made Emily groan once more and Miranda steepled her fingers together, waiting for the lunch ahead of her.