Disclaimer: I don't own The Devil Wears Prada.

Note 1: I watched the movie for the first time this week, and wow. I can't believe I'm coming so late to such an awesome fandom. I haven't been this inspired to write in a long time.

Note 2: Sorry about the title. I couldn't help myself!

The Runway fax machine is not outdated, because nothing with a place in Miranda Priestly's life is allowed to remain past its prime. Nor is the fax machine broken, because Miranda Priestly does not tolerate failure. What the fax machine is, however, rather like its mistress, is difficult.

Which is why, when Miranda Priestly, who allows herself to look weary only because she is quite alone, reads the faded instructions on the side of the fax machine, mashes a few buttons, and unceremoniously shoves in the letter of reference she has been mulling over for the past five hours, she fails to realize that the machine has stalled partway down the page. After tapping her toe impatiently for a long moment, she rips the letter out of the machine, jams it into the shredder, and resolutely puts the matter out of her mind.

Andy Sachs, of course, could tell her that the fax machine requires a little charm, a little finessing, to get it working properly. But Andy Sachs, of course, is not there.

Smile, Andy reminds herself, even as her heart clenches in terror. It's hard to keep said smile affixed to her face as the editor of the New York Mirror casually mentions that he called Runway for a reference prior to this interview. Of course he did. He isn't an idiot, and anyway, she knew her not-quite-a-year as Miranda Priestly's assistant was going to raise a few eyebrows.

"…Next thing you know, I get a fax from Miranda Priestly herself saying that of all the assistants she's ever had, you are, by far, her biggest disappointment."

Andy doesn't flinch, because that not-quite-a-year as Miranda Priestly's assistant has taught her not to flinch. She does lose the smile, though, even as her heart beats a little faster, even as she waits for the punch line that's sure to come, because that can't possibly be all Miranda had to say about her.

You are, by far, her biggest disappointment. But you can fetch a cup of coffee in under five minutes when properly motivated, so we're giving you a job in the mail room.

You are, by far, her biggest disappointment. But your fashion sense has improved from abysmal to inoffensive, indicating some desire to better yourself, and therefore we can probably find you a position on the janitorial staff.

You are, by far, her biggest disappointment. But your deadly aim when hurling company-owned phones is undeniable, which makes you a shoo-in for the building's rent-a-cop company.

There's no punch line, though. Nothing to soften the blow. The editor's odd little smile, half-pitying, half-condescending, confirms it. Miranda has publicly declared that Andy is her biggest disappointment—worse than the assistant who once managed to staple her own ear to a Valentino gown; worse than the assistant who fed Patricia chocolate; worse than the dozens of assistants who hadn't lasted a week under Miranda's merciless reign.

"It's too bad," he says, shaking his head and closing her folder with finality. "Your other credentials were impeccable."

Andy doesn't know what she says in response, although evidently it's courteous enough that she isn't tossed out of the building on her ear. Still, she stumbles out the door and onto a busy Manhattan street, her stomach a knot of emotions she doesn't care to identify just now. It's becoming difficult to breathe. She steadies herself with a hand on the solid masonry of a building in which she will never work.

A building she will never work in because—because—

Because Miranda has blacklisted her.

As soon as the word clarifies in her mind, a wave of calm sweeps over her. Her breathing evens out. She finds herself suddenly steady in her fashionable-yet-sensible shoes.

Yes, that's right. In retaliation for Andy's dramatic but necessary actions in Paris, Miranda has blacklisted her.

She's done what everyone warned Andy she would do. She's done what Andy, in her overconfident, self-important heart of hearts, had believed Miranda would not do to her.

No doubt Miranda meant the letter as a death blow. The sneer of a gangster telling some fool you'll never work in this town again and then blowing his head off just to drive the point home. Miranda thinks this is going to run Andy straight out of New York, maybe back to Chicago or Cincinnati to lick her wounds and moan over the fact that she's joined the long list of people who've been screwed by the high goddess of couture.

Well, if that's what Miranda thinks, she's in for a rude awakening. Andy was ready to call it quits with fashion, with Runway, with Miranda-freaking-Priestly. But now a challenge has been issued; a gauntlet has been thrown down. Andy reflects, with the cool composure of a master tactician, that Miranda really should have learned to stop underestimating her by now.

So Miranda thinks she can stop her, does she? She thinks Andy is just some bug to be squashed under her Louboutins?

Andy's eyes narrow. "Game on, Priestly."

Two Years Later

Miranda reads Vogue because she would be a fool not to read Vogue. Occasionally, she is able to find some entertainment value from the exercise: a blouse even Anna Wintour must realize is gaudy, or a model whose pose inspires no admiration whatsoever. More often, she comes away from the requisite hour feeling the need for a mid-morning nap, which is something she has not indulged in since she was seven years old.

"Close the door, Emily," Miranda calls out, hardly caring whether it is Emily XV or Emily XVIII who scurries to obey, and reclines at her desk, lip curling instinctively as she skims the cover of the latest edition, bracing herself. And then her eyes catch sight of something that makes her mind and body freeze.

What.

But.

No!

She blinks at the name written in tiny print on the bottom left corner. She blinks again. The name doesn't change.

Andrea Sachs.

Miranda's nostrils flare. She gives the magazine a shake for good measure, as if it is a Magic 8 Ball whose answer will correct itself if she can discombobulate it enough.

But no—the name remains the same. The world stays tilted off its axis. Andrea Sachs—Andrea Sachs!—has written an article. For Vogue. Which Vogue has decided to publish. In today's edition. Which Miranda is now clutching. In her hands.

Miranda has hardly given a thought to that miserable girl in the past two years. Not since she'd come to realize, after dismissively tossing away a few dollars for a subscription, that Andrea had evidently declined to work for the New York Mirror. Something she might have decided before they wasted Miranda's time asking for a letter of reference, but no, that would have been far too thoughtful to expect from a nose-in-the-air wannabe journalist who mistook Parisian fountains for phone charging stations.

After cancelling her subscription, Miranda had idly asked Emily whether she'd heard where Andrea had ended up. Siberia would have been a good answer. Emily had looked flustered and then offered to set up something called a "Google alert" for Andrea's name, which Miranda had viciously rejected because by God she was not going to sit around waiting for an email to tell her where her erstwhile assistant had run off to.

Instead, Miranda had put Andrea Sachs from her mind and that had been that. Until now. Because Andrea Sachs, who departed from the fashion world in rather spectacular fashion, seems to have returned with a splash.

Closer perusal of the magazine indicates that Andrea's article can be found on page 32. Because Miranda could not care less what the phone-tossing brat has been up to, she resolves to read the entire magazine from the beginning. No skipping ahead. No skimming. In fact, she will scrutinize each ad, each spread, each photograph even more closely than usual, looking for the imperfections that reveal this to be the work of (one of) her arch nemesis (arch nemeses).

Unfortunately, not reading Andrea's article does not prevent her from thinking about said article. What, Miranda wonders, could Andrea Sachs, of the cerulean burlap sack otherwise known as That Blue Sweater, possibly have to say that would be fitting for a fashion magazine?

She makes it to page 16 before she realizes exactly what Andrea Sachs might say that would belong in a fashion magazine. And who, exactly, Andrea Sachs might say it about. Two years may have passed, but Andrea's intimate knowledge of the workings of Runway—and, more importantly, Miranda Priestly—would be considered invaluable by the right parties. Over the course of her short tenure, Andrea was privy to more insight into Miranda's life and dealings than anyone Miranda has ever worked with, save, perhaps, Nigel.

Andrea witnessed firsthand the deterioration of Miranda's marriage to Stephen. She was the first person Miranda told about the divorce. She was on hand as Miranda's conscripted cheerleader for Miranda's decisive victory against Irv Ravitz and Jacqueline Follet. She's the only person lacking the last name of Priestly who has seen Miranda without her makeup in the past decade, ex-husbands included.

Given the right incentive, Andrea could write quite the article tearing into the reputation of both Runway and its queen.

In her sudden haste to get to page 32, Miranda rips six of the unfortunate pages in between. And there it is: "A Woman's Place is at the Helm", an article by freelance writer Andrea Sachs.

Bristling with suspicion, Miranda does not settle in to read the article. Instead she skims through it in search of key words such as "Miranda Priestly", "Runway", and "Ice Queen" (her fourth-favorite moniker).

Nothing.

Scowling, she skims it again, this time looking for "Stephen", "Irv", "Elias-Clark", and "the Devil" (by far her favorite).

Still nothing.

If Andrea has seized this opportunity to disparage her former employer, she hasn't done a spectacular job in doing so. And, much as Miranda hates to admit it, it isn't like Andrea to do less than a spectacular job at anything.

Which means she probably ought to just read the article and see what all the fuss is about.

On her first pass through, Miranda concedes that the article is rather well-written. Acceptable, at the least. By Vogue standards, excellent. The commas are all in the right place. The content is—best not to think too hard about the content until a second read. The tone is firm, confident. No one would believe that less than three years ago the author had not known how to spell "Gabbana".

On her second pass through, Miranda slumps back in her chair. This? She allowed this to slip through her fingers? This—passion. This—cunning. This absolute—absolute something, the word escapes her at the moment.

Andrea's article is a well-researched, well-crafted look into the patriarchy that still looms over the fashion industry and the powerful women who defy said patriarchy. It pulls example after example of women who succeed, not because of the men at the top, but despite them. Irv Ravitz is never mentioned, but he would most likely see himself in these pages. Miranda is never mentioned, either, and yet every word, she knows, is about her.

It is a glowing review. A rave. It is three thousand words of unqualified praise for Miranda Priestly. And the best part?

Miranda smiles; no, she laughs. (On the other side of the door, Emily XVIII gives a full body flinch at the sound. She will not last long.)

The best part is that Anna Wintour no doubt thinks the article is all about her.

Andy and the box sit on her bed, regarding each other with deep distrust. Andy is in her pajamas, slightly tipsy but jubilant after an outing with friends to celebrate her most recent publication. The box is wrapped in brown paper, not tipsy at all, and bears a return address that looks an awful lot like the address to the Elias-Clark building.

Andy expected to hear from Miranda after the article was published. After all, this is the first return blow Andy has dealt since that fateful day at the Mirror. So yes, of course Miranda would feel the need to retaliate. Andy just hadn't expected it to happen so quickly.

"How long does it take to have venomous snakes sent from the Amazon?" Andy asks the box. "Is same-day shipping really a thing?"

The box does not reply.

"It just doesn't seem likely that even Miranda could get a bomb put together and delivered all in the same day," Andy muses, poking the box with one wary finger. "Unless there's an even darker side to the fashion industry I don't already know about?"

The box ignores her.

"It's impolite to just show up on someone's doorstep unannounced," she informs it. "Especially since Miranda shouldn't even know where I live these days." After failing to get that job at the Mirror, she'd had to downgrade apartments two years ago to save money while she plotted how to get back at Miranda by succeeding despite her.

Andy has worked hard these past two years, harder even than she did at Runway. She's written dozens of articles, most of which she's ripped to shreds herself and then disposed of, deeming them inadequate for her contest with La Priestly. She's painstakingly built a name for herself as a freelance journalist with integrity, dedication, and impeccable grammar. And today, finally, she's looked up from her long climb to find herself standing on a peak. Not the highest peak of the mountain, surely, but the first one she's reached since Miranda unceremoniously booted her off the chair lift to land on her face in the snow two years ago.

And now there is this. A box. From Miranda. Miranda, who must have read Andy's article. What Andy wouldn't give to have been a fly on the wall for that experience.

It appears that all the glares in the world won't get the box to divulge its secrets. She growls. "Fine, you win." A quick slice across the top with a steak knife and the brown paper falls away to reveal the white box underneath. Andrea observes long enough to make sure the box is not, in fact, hissing. Then she takes off the lid.

And stares.

Instead of venomous snakes, a bomb, a scorpion, or some kind of pressure-activated machine gun (Andy has, perhaps, been watching too many action movies), the box contains…boots. And not just any boots. Those boots. The Chanel boots. The ones Andy wore when Nigel first made her over; the items she'd been saddest to return to the Closet after the phone-in-fountain incident. She loves these boots.

Andy eyes the boots in confusion for a long moment before the notices the card off to the side. It is simple, white, on expensive stock. She opens it.

"With my compliments," it says. It's signed, simply, "Miranda".

Carefully, Andy places the box on the floor. Then she collapses on the bed, staring up at the pockmarks on the ceiling as she mulls over this latest development, trying to find the hidden message.

Boots are made for walking. So she's saying, what? Walk away?

They're three seasons old. Maybe it's her way of saying I haven't caught up to her, that I'll never catch up to her.

She's going to squash me under her boots?

They used to be my boots (sort of). Is she telling me Runway is too good to hang onto anything I've contaminated?

Maybe all of them; maybe none of them. Miranda is notoriously enigmatic, and since it's been two years since she's seen the woman Andy isn't sure she still counts as a Priestly expert.

What she does know is this: Miranda struck the first blow. Andy hit back. Miranda then retaliated with this confusing boot-related threat.

Perhaps Miranda thinks this finishes things. Well, it doesn't. Not by a long shot.

Andy takes out her phone and scrolls through her emails until she finds one she received earlier that morning from a man named William Hart. William explains that he's a literary agent; he read her article and thinks it's the best thing since sliced bread; does Andy have any interest in writing a book? If so, he would love to represent her.

Andy considers. She does, in fact, have interest in writing a book. In her downtime over the past two years she's compiled a collection of anecdotes based on her time at Runway. Not stories about Miranda, no—she won't give Miranda the satisfaction—but stories about the models, the designers, and, most of all, the long-suffering assistants who work behind the scenes to make it all happen. Since she got his email, she's been turning over the idea for a book proposal in her head, wondering if she's crazy.

Crazy like a fox, she decides, and emails him back.

Miranda wishes she could say that her rather impulsive decision to return Andrea's favorite boots as a gift is the end of her thoughts about the girl. There is no reason for there to be anything more between them. Andrea left Miranda in Paris; Miranda wrote Andrea a letter of reference that would have gotten her any job in the city; Andrea wrote an article which Nigel has not-so-cleverly described as a "love song to J. Alfred Priestly"; and now Miranda has given Andrea those rather fetching boots back.

They're even; they're done with each other. Andrea is unlikely to ever submit an article to Runway. If she were so inclined, she would have submitted the Vogue article, the one people can't stop talking about, the one that nearly drove Irv Ravitz to heart failure. (It turned out Irv could, indeed, see himself in those pages.) (Why didn't Andrea submit her article to Runway?) So why can't Miranda stop thinking about her?

Miranda enlists her daughters into teaching her how to set up a Google alert, though they think the alert is for any mention of Cassidy's new boyfriend, sixteen-year-old quarterback Ken Jacobs. (In fact, Miranda does set up an alert for Ken. And hires a private investigator who assures her he is a pro at "knee capping" when necessary.) She sets up alerts for "Andrea Sachs", "Andrea and Vogue", "Andrea and fashion", and, with a grimace, "Andy Sachs". She then sits at her computer for a good hour waiting for an alert to come in before realizing it may be a long time coming.

In the meantime, she drafts Emily the Latest into compiling a file of all of Andrea's publications from the past two years. She cannot possibly have made her debut publication in Vogue, like Athena springing fully formed from Zeus's head.

The file is thin but somehow still substantial. Reading the articles, Miranda feels no need to stifle her admiration at Andrea's patient but undeniably aggressive approach to building her career.

Andrea's articles are…well. The writing is of the highest caliber, the research even better. These are not spur-of-the-moment pieces of writing; hard work and a great deal of time have gone into them. Miranda would bet that Andrea has a discard pile a yard high of articles that didn't make the cut, that, while perfectly adequate, did not declare, Take note of me, world, for I am exceptional!

Andrea has chosen strategically where to publish. An article in the New York Intelligencer (which did not request a reference from Miranda) would have helped her make the connections to publish in the Times, which clearly led to her short piece in the New Yorker, which almost certainly got the attention of Anna Wintour. And from Vogue? There is nowhere Andrea can't go, whether she chooses to continue writing about fashion or return to the subjects she was so passionate about before she began at Runway.

Exceptional, indeed.

It's almost two months after the Vogue article before Miranda's alert finally pings. Clicking the link takes her to a press release that includes what must be a recent picture of Andrea and dear God she has a pixie cut. It should look ridiculous. It does not. She is clearly back to being a size six. Miranda should be thinking that she could stand to lose some weight. She is not.

In fact, Miranda is not thinking much at all, because she hasn't seen Andrea Sachs in two years and now, like a dying man taunted by the mirage of an oasis, her mouth is so dry it aches.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for Miranda to pull herself together enough to actually read the press release. Its contents make her eyebrows crawl up her forehead.

Andrea Sachs, it seems, is writing a book. A book about the fashion industry, told from a lowly assistant's perspective. A book "based on her own experience working in a notoriously difficult position". Her advance is unusually large, which can be attributed to the success of her Vogue article. Perhaps most surprisingly of all, the book is not to be non-fiction. It's a novel, of all things.

Miranda can't wait to read it.

The day Andy's book deal is announced, she is inundated under a wave of congratulations from friends, family, and distant acquaintances. Christian Thompson sends her an email that can only be described as appreciatively lecherous. Nigel texts to invite her for drinks for the first time in over a year (they've drifted apart; it's no one's fault; he doesn't realize that she sees him as a lieutenant on the other side of her secret war). Even Nate, whom she has not spoken to since the time she went to Boston and realized she had no interest in making things work, sends her a very nice bouquet.

A kernel of uncertainty relaxes in the pit of her stomach. I can do this, she thinks. This isn't the end of her climb; not even close. The book may still tank. She may develop debilitating writer's block. It might be all downhill from here. But she doesn't think so. She's reached this point through hard work and careful planning. Most importantly, she's done it on her own.

The only person she doesn't hear from is Miranda Priestly. She likes to think that it's because this riposte, so soon after Miranda's last blow, has driven the editor back a step or two. Miranda has to be wondering what embarrassing details Andy might share in her book. She could talk about the time Miranda sent her for a Strawberry Shortcake ice cream bar at 2 a.m. the day before New York Fashion Week started. She could talk about the time Miranda fell in love with a jacket and wore it for two days before realizing the lining had a canary yellow trim. She could even disclose Miranda's defenseless affection for all things canine.

(She would never dream of mentioning anything to do with Stephen, or what happened with Nigel, or the horrors that are the twins. She hopes Miranda knows that.)

Four days after the deal is announced, a slender envelope arrives amidst the pile of coupons and bills that seem to deposit themselves daily in Andy's mailbox. The envelope has no return address, but is addressed to Andy in handwriting she knows only too well.

She tilts her head as she contemplates its possible contents. It's too small for venomous snakes. No boots this time, either. (More's the pity. Andy is wearing those Chanel boots right now. They are her very favorite possessions.)

"Anthrax?" Andy asks the envelope, wondering where one might purchase a hazmat suit, just to be safe. She shakes her head, laughing at herself. "Surely not."

She ends up wrapping a scarf around her face in case Miranda has decided to resort to prank-style glitter bombs (which is not as far-fetched as it sounds, just ask the unfortunate Jacqueline Follet). Her precautions prove unnecessary as a simple card falls out. Innocuous, at first glance. Then Andy takes a closer look.

"Pleased to invite you…Met Gala…Hosted by Runway…"

Oh, no. Oh, no.

This is it, Andy's certain. Miranda is laying her cards on the table. This is her way of saying, "I'll see your five dollars and raise you my house in the Hamptons." Twice now, Miranda has done her best to humiliate Andy in small settings, though she still isn't sure what the cruel message behind the boots was meant to be. This, though. This is Miranda's opportunity to destroy Andy in a public arena. To tear her down with words and innuendo and the press and those glares, the ones that seem to cut right into the heart of Andy, and—

And she is hyperventilating.

Until suddenly she is not.

Because, suddenly, she has remembered what started this little war between them. Miranda blacklisted her (a word that, when she thinks about it, still stiffens her spine), all over some abuse of company property. (Okay, it was a little more than that, but the woman sure could hold a grudge.) Miranda had thought she had the power to destroy Andy. She'd called Andy a disappointment. And now Andy is going to, what? Decline the invitation? Crawl back into her 400 square foot studio and lick her wounds? Prove Miranda right?

"I'll disappoint you, Miranda Priestly," Andy growls. Then she looks at the invitation again, sees the date—three days from now—and yelps. "But what am I going to wear?"

Miranda cannot deny the rush of excitement she feels as she unfolds herself from the back seat of her car. This is hardly her first Met Gala—hardly her tenth—but it is, without a doubt, the one she is most looking forward to.

She holds her head high as she glides down the red carpet, Nigel trailing just behind on her right and Emily XV even further back on her left. Miranda looks good, she knows, in a striking one-of-a-kind Valentino number that would be daring on a woman half her age. (A woman Andrea's age, for example. Not that that is relevant.) It's a matter of habit to keep her expression cool as she makes the necessary five second pose for the press before continuing in to the party.

She wonders when Andrea will arrive. She wonders whether Andrea is already here.

A part of her wonders whether Andrea will come at all. Hadn't she been offensively eager to escape from this world just two years ago? What must she make of Miranda's invitation? (What does Miranda make of Miranda's invitation?)

She makes the necessary rounds, sipping at her glass of champagne and wishing it were something a little stronger. As always at these events, she is approached by hordes of people so dull that Emily XV has to remind her who they are. Oh, that's Congressman So-and-So and his mistress of the week. And here's Mr. Wells, you know, of the California Wells. Blah, blah, blah.

Miranda pays even less attention than usual, because, like a shark who knows there must be blood in the water, she is searching. Searching for that pixie cut, those intelligent eyes, that wide smile that even almost-a-year of Priestly duty hadn't extinguished.

She finds these things after almost half an hour, all in the form of a perfectly proportioned young woman on the arm of—no.

"Miranda?" Nigel asks, taken aback by her expression.

She doesn't care. What she does care about is the fact that her invitee—her former assistant—her something has just waltzed in on the arm of a very smug looking Anna Wintour.

Andrea looks around, immediately catches sight of Miranda, and beams. She leans over and whispers something in Anna's ear. Anna smirks, nods, and together they stroll across the floor to where Miranda stands. They take their time, which gives Miranda plenty of opportunity to assess the younger woman's outfit. What she sees makes her catch her breath.

"Did you…?" she murmurs out of the corner of her mouth at Nigel, who is openly gaping.

"Not me," he says, holding up his hands. "I didn't even know Six'd be here tonight."

Andrea Sachs, who once wore an orange poncho all the way up the Elias-Clark elevators and into the Runway office on a drizzly day, looks deadly in a perfectly-fitted Valentino gown of her own. Unlike Miranda's crimson, hers is black. Like Miranda's, the dress is cut to tantalize with just enough bare skin showing to leave the viewer wanting more. The dress is the perfect complement to Miranda's. They could not have matched each other better if they tried.

Then there is the rest of her, of course. The long, slender neck. The hair, eyes, and mouth already considered (and just as Miranda remembered). Andrea even manages to look comfortable in four-inch heels. She is…exquisite. Miranda wants to know what the inside of her mouth tastes like.

As for Anna, who cares how Anna looks. Not as good as Miranda, and that's all that matters.

Anna and Andrea come to a halt just in front of Miranda and Nigel. Miranda looks at Andrea; Andrea gazes back, a spark of challenge in her eyes.

See me, Miranda can almost hear her saying. The smart, fat girl is here. Just watch what I do next.

"Andrea," she says, coolly, in greeting.

"Miranda," Andrea says at the same time, confident.

"Thank you, Miranda, it is a pleasure to see you, too," Anna interjects. "I haven't seen you since—well, before Andrea's article in Vogue. I've been hoping to get your thoughts on it."

Miranda's return grin shows some teeth. "It was wonderful, of course. Andrea's insight into the most impressive woman in fashion is nothing less than astonishing."

Anna frowns at that, sensing a hidden barb but unsure of its meaning.

Andrea's eyes go wide. Is she afraid Miranda will reveal to the Vogue editor just who that article was really about?

"Anna, it was so lovely to run into you on the red carpet, but please don't let me hold you up," Andrea tells her companion. "Oh—Liam's over there trying to wave you down."

Anna squints at her, clearly sensing that something is off, but whatever her investment in Andrea may be it is far, far less than Miranda's. Miranda would never be so easily deflected. Anna, on the other hand, shrugs elegantly, waggles one condescending finger at Miranda, and says, "Andy, find me later. I want to talk more about this book of yours."

"Of course." Andrea's grin is wide and unforced. She seems to genuinely like Anna.

Miranda's blood boils.

"It's impolite to come to a gala on the arm of the host's arch nemesis," she hisses, falling easily back into the old habit of telling Andrea exactly what she's done wrong.

This isn't the old Andrea, though. This Andrea mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, "It's impolite to send someone a box of poisonous snakes", but then coughs at Miranda's startled look and simply replies, "Anna and I bumped into each other outside. She was kind to me about my article. I was hardly going to shove her away."

"Kindness is overrated," Miranda says.

"Basic human decency is not," Andrea returns.

Hmm. There was something sharp to that reply. It seems little Andrea Sachs has grown claws.

Nigel, long forgotten, clears his throat. "Six, it's lovely to see you—and where did you get that dress?—but you two clearly have a lot to talk about. Find me later?"

Andrea grins again—or keeps grinning, or something, the expression never seems to leave her face—and says, warmly, "Definitely. It's so good to see you."

He wanders off. Miranda sees more dull sycophants heading in their direction, jockeying for her attention, whistles sharply as she would to summon Patricia, and orders, "Emily. We are not to be disturbed."

Emily XV nods resolutely—not a total waste of space, this one—and moves to intercept.

Andrea's eyebrows have risen incredulously. "You're still calling them Emily?"

Miranda waves her hand. "I'm certainly not going to call her Cynthia. Anyway, that's unimportant. I am interested in the answer to Nigel's question. Where did you get the dress? I half-expected to see you here in Levis and a plaid shirt."

"And Chanel boots?" she tosses back.

Ah, the boots. Miranda had wondered whether those would come up in conversation. She takes a sip of champagne and tilts her head, curious to see what Andrea has to say about that little gift.

Andrea, it turns out, has nothing to say about that gift. "To answer your question, a few of my friends helped me out. I met a lot of people as your assistant. They were low on the totem pole back then, but most of them have moved up by now. They were happy to help doll me up for tonight."

Miranda half-expected Andrea to confess that birds helped her dress in the morning. A cohort of former-assistants-turned-fashionistas, she supposes, makes about as much sense for this impossible young woman.

"It helps that they all want to be in my book," Andrea adds with a self-deprecating shrug.

"Ah, yes, the book." Miranda watches out of the corner of her eye as three sycophants approach en masse and begin to engage in offensive maneuvers in an effort to breach Emily XV's admittedly impressive defensive positioning. Perhaps the girl played football in a former life. Miranda takes Andrea by the elbow—noting with interest the younger woman's unsubtle gasp—and leads her to an alcove somewhat off the beaten path. "Tell me more about it. I was pleased to read the announcement."

Andrea makes a noise that can best be described as a scoff. "Yeah, sure."

It is not often that someone takes Miranda so aback. She tuts. "So much hostility, Andrea. I thought we were past such things. Your Vogue article certainly seemed to suggest that your disgust towards me and everything I stand for has lessened."

Andrea has the grace to look embarrassed. "I don't—Miranda, Paris was a long time ago. I don't have 'disgust towards you and everything you stand for.' You're right—my Vogue article made my feelings pretty clear."

Miranda glares. "Then may I inquire as to your meaning when you said 'Yeah, sure'?"

She sighs and rubs her forehead, which makes her look both older and wiser. "Miranda, we both know you weren't pleased to hear about my book. No more pleased than you were to see I'd published with Anna, I'll bet."

"We both know, do we?" Miranda's good mood of thirty minutes ago has evaporated entirely. Just as she'd forgotten how charming Andrea could be, so she has also forgotten how exasperating the girl is. "How kind of you to tell me how I feel."

Andrea, too, appears on the verge of losing her temper. For the first time, that damnable grin is gone. Some part of Miranda regrets its absence. "Cut the crap, Miranda. You wanted me to fail. I didn't fail. So there."

She juts out her chin and gives Miranda a look every bit as flinty as any glare Miranda has ever given her.

Andy can't quite believe the words that are tumbling out of her mouth like so much verbal diarrhea. So there? So there? What is she, four years old?

She certainly feels like a misbehaving toddler under Miranda's hawk-like stare. The older woman looks amazing, of course, her hair silky in that way Andy's always admired and that dress—that dress—showing off her figure to perfect effect. Andy wonders what that creamy skin tastes like and then wonders whether she's going a little bit insane.

Andy half-expects Miranda to ditch the conversation now that it's taken a sharp turn from semi-cordial to outright antagonistic. After all, what fun is there in eviscerating someone in a secluded corner? Far more enjoyable to wait and do it out on the crowded floor. Instead, Miranda scrutinizes her as if Andy is the Book on a bad night.

Seconds tick by. Miranda's brow furrows. Andy crosses her arms over her chest, decides that makes her look even more petulant, and drops them to her sides. Maybe it was a mistake to come tonight after all.

"I worked my way up from nothing, did you know that?" Miranda murmurs at last, so softly Andy almost doesn't hear her. "Scrimped and saved every penny, put myself through college. The first time I bought a couture dress I lived off bread and water for the next six weeks."

Andy stares at Miranda; knows she's staring, but can't stop. There is something about Miranda's face, her posture, the way she almost hunches in on herself, that takes Andy immediately back to Paris, and that hotel room, and the disastrous events that conspired to bring them both here.

"I knew—some of that," she says, because Miranda appears to be waiting for her input. "I talked to people about you, you know, when I was researching for my article. I didn't know about the dress."

Miranda nods sharply. "Well. I did. I fought tooth and claw to get to where I am today, Andrea. As you so astutely pointed out in your article, one of my greatest enemies along the way was my gender. I had to succeed. I was a woman. These were two of my defining traits, and for the longest time they were at odds. Until one day I pushed long enough, fought hard enough, that they weren't."

Andy rubs the back of her neck, some of the wind going out of her sails. This wasn't how she thought this conversation would go at all. What's Miranda trying to do, show that whatever Andy has achieved she's still better? "You don't have to tell me you're amazing, Miranda. That goes without saying."

Miranda gives her an odd look at that, but then shakes herself and goes on. "Knowing all that about me—and I know you already knew most of it—how dare you accuse me of wanting you to fail? You are a woman fighting to prove yourself in this man's world. Of course I want you to succeed."

"You have a funny way of showing it." Andy regrets the words almost as soon as they leave her mouth. She really, truly, did not come here planning on throwing ancient history in Miranda's face. The Mirror and that wretched reference are in the past. She came here because of the future, to show that she can't be stopped.

Miranda's eyes narrow. She's now giving off that faint aura of menace that used to give Emily the First heart palpitations. "Explain that statement."

"I'm sorry," Andy sighs. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Andrea. Explain."

"Look, I'm over it, okay? But if you really wanted me to succeed, you wouldn't have written that god-awful reference letter. You wouldn't have blacklisted me."

Miranda could not look more poleaxed if Andy pulled on a pair of overalls and started dancing a jig. "I wouldn't have what?"

It isn't like Miranda to play dumb, but Andy doesn't intent to let her get away with it. "You blacklisted me, Miranda," she says, jabbing a finger in the other woman's face and only then wondering whether said finger might be bitten off. "After everything we went through, you went and told the world I was your greatest disappointment. You tried to see to it I couldn't get a job at a high school gazette. Well, guess what? I'm here. I'm making a name for myself. And no matter how hard you try to stop me, I'm not going away."

Miranda is staring at Andy's mouth. Andy hopes she's been reading every word as it passes her lips.

"You aren't, are you?" Miranda says, again in that soft murmur so at odds with Andy's long-nurtured fury. "You know, Andrea…"

Andy braces herself. This is it, Miranda's vitriolic attack that's going to leave her shaken and destroyed and wondering how she ever dared set herself against the Devil.

"…I would like to kiss you."

Andy wheezes. "Excuse me?"

"Not tonight, of course," Miranda continues blithely. "Clearly we still have much to discuss. But sometime soon. After dinner, perhaps. Yes, dinner will do nicely. Next week, I should think."

"Miranda—"

"To address your accusation," Miranda goes on, and now there is a hint of steel in her tone, "I have no idea what you're talking about. I've never tried to stop you, Andrea. I've never blacklisted you. Far from it, in fact. That letter of reference could have gotten you any job in publishing."

"You said I was your greatest disappointment!" Andy squawks.

Miranda rolls her eyes. "And?"

Andy frowns. "And?"

Miranda hesitates. There's something like dawning horror in those icy, wonderful blue eyes. "And the rest of it, Andrea."

"The rest of what?" Andy feels as if she's been dropped against her will into some sort of bizarre comedy banter.

"The rest of my letter."

"There was no rest of it. That was it. 'Of all the assistants I've had, Andrea Sachs is, by far, my greatest disappointment.'"

Miranda stares at Andy. Andy stares back. Other than the low buzz of voices out on the main floor, there is dead silence between them.

Miranda clears her throat delicately. Impossibly, a blush is working its way up her cheeks. "You mean to say—my fax didn't make it through entirely."

"Your fax?" Andy's eyes bug out. "Your fax? You used Freddy?"

"Who on Earth is Freddy?"

"Freddy, the fax machine."

"I wasn't aware we had gotten into the habit of naming office equipment," Miranda drawls.

Andy's hands clench at her sides. There's been some kind of terrible misunderstanding. She has the sinking feeling she's made a mistake. "Freddy's special needs, Miranda. You have to, you know, sweet-talk him a little. Otherwise he eats faxes for lunch."

"Ah," Miranda says lightly. She is now looking everywhere but into Andrea's eyes. She may be embarrassed. "So you're saying—that is. Ah. My fax did not go through in its entirety. The only portion was the bit about disappointment. This, ah, prevented you from obtaining a job you very much wanted."

Andy squints at her. "Miranda…what did the rest of the letter say?"

Miranda waves her hand airily. "Who can recall, so many years later? I'm certain it was nothing important."

"Miranda," Andy growls. "If you ever want to have that dinner you were talking about…" And the kissing, Andy thinks, her eyes drifting to Miranda's mouth. Definitely the kissing.

Her eyes move back up, only to find that Miranda has caught the direction of her gaze. Something shifts in Miranda's stance. Where a moment ago she was uncertain, now she looks simply resigned.

"'You'd be an idiot not to hire her'," she says.

Andy is distantly aware that a big, goofy grin is spreading across her face. "You said that? In a letter? About me?"

"A letter which apparently never saw the light of day," Miranda grumbles. "'Freddy' is about to be retired."

"Wow. All this time, I…Wow."

Miranda's expression turns pensive. "Yes. All this time, you thought I'd wronged you terribly. Well, I suppose I did, but not intentionally. And in response, you…"

Became a raging idiot, Andy thinks.

"…transformed into someone even more extraordinary than the woman I knew two years ago. Well, thank goodness for decrepit fax machines, I say."

Andy's mental self-flagellation screeches to a halt. What? "What?"

Miranda's lips now appear to be twitching. Andy wants to kiss them still. "You thought that I was out to get you, and your response was to publish an outrageously flattering article in my biggest competitor and then get a book deal that isn't even a tell-all revealing my darkest secrets?"

"I was proving myself!" Andy sputters. "The article, that was, I had to show you I could make it without you, and on your own turf. Its content is, is, irrelevant. And then the book deal. I had to make the book deal after you sent me those boots."

A sound comes out of Miranda's nose. From anyone else it would be an unladylike snort. "What about the boots? I thought you liked them."

"I love them! That's not the point! I thought they were evil boots. Taunting boots."

Miranda shifts a little closer. Those twitching lips have shifted into a full on smile, the kind James Holt would cut off his own arm to receive. "Taunting how, exactly?"

Andy bites her lip. "I never figured out exactly how they were meant to taunt me, but—mmmmmmph."

Thank God. Miranda has saved them both from this farce by taking matters into her own hands. Or rather, by taking Andy's lips into her lips. Or rather, by sticking her tongue into Andy's mouth and licking and oh this is not at all the kind of tongue lashing Andy expected to get from Miranda Priestly tonight, but she wouldn't walk away right now for an editorial position at the New York Times.

Andy wraps her arms around Miranda's neck, leaning into the older woman and groaning as their bodies press deliciously together. It occurs to her, vaguely, that they are at the social event of the season and making out like teenagers in the corner is not exactly discreet. Then Miranda grabs her ass and Andy decides that if Miranda doesn't care about discretion then Andy really, really doesn't, either.

Finally, when they're both about to die of asphyxiation, Andy breaks off the kiss. She remains in Miranda's embrace, though, feeling comfortable and supported, and she thinks that she can do it on her own, has done everything on her own, but there's nothing wrong with leaning on someone every now and then.

"Have dinner with me," Miranda says, her breath tickling Andy's ear.

"Up until tonight, Miranda, you were my biggest disappointment," Andrea says. She presses a kiss to the side of Miranda's neck, just because she can. Her heart might be about to pound its way out of her chest. "And I'd be an idiot not to date you."