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Scene 3

Wardrobe

Scene 27 ✨ Society Decides ✨

Wrong Allocation Again

Graduation came and went in a blur of handshakes, photographs, and the strange, bright emptiness that follows applause. I kept my smile in place, accepted the honours cord like it belonged to me, and watched the year scatter—boys roaring about the coast, girls already rehearsing their new lives. …Charlie didn’t scatter. He simply... vanished — as if being perceived as a future was more frightening than being ignored as a present. A week later I was at the Faire grounds before dawn, clipboard in hand, my mum’s name on a donor plaque near the gate and my dad’s quiet influence in the way managers returned his calls. Wardrobe had lost two staff to “last-minute opportunities,” which meant it became mine by default—because I’d been hovering near it for years, because I knew the inventory by touch, because I didn’t panic. I was scanning the temporary hire list when I saw Rossignol, Charles under Maintenance and felt that small, decisive click in my chest: wrong allocation, again—only this time it was happening on my turf.

Celeste and Wardrobe

Morning at the Faire wasn’t romantic.

It was the smell of damp canvas and cold metal, the slap of tarps in wind, the low, purposeful swearing of men moving heavy things before the public arrived to call it “charming.” The sun hadn’t properly committed to being up yet, and already the grounds looked like an argument someone had started at midnight and forgotten to finish.

I walked with my clipboard tucked against my ribs and my hair pinned tight, because Wardrobe is chaos unless someone insists it isn’t. People say “costumes” like they mean lace and ribbons. In practice, it’s inventory, repairs, sweat, missing buttons, lost stockings, and the constant terror of a zipper failing five minutes before a guest photo with a patron who paid to be here.

Two staff down, I’d been told cheerfully, as though the universe had simply moved pieces off the board for fun. I hadn’t argued. I’d taken the keys.

That was my advantage, really. Not that my parents’ names were on a plaque by the gate—though that did mean my calls got returned. My advantage was that I didn’t waste energy being offended by reality.

I didn’t stop walking when I heard the raised voice.

“Mate, no—no, not like that. You’re going to tear it. For God’s sake, put it down.”

The voice belonged to Graham — Maintenance lead, forearms like carved timber, the kind of man whose authority didn’t require a title because it was written into how people stepped aside when he moved.

I found them near the prop shed. Two boys hauling benches. One man supervising with the exhausted patience of someone who’d learned the hard way that yelling doesn’t make things lighter.

And there, between a stack of planks and a coil of rope, was Charlie.

He looked worse than he had at school, and not in any dramatic way. Just… worn at the edges. Hair in his eyes, shirt clinging slightly at the collar as if he’d already been sweating, shoulders pulled inward against the weight of a bench he had no business carrying. His hands were placed too carefully — not gripping like a labourer, but holding like someone afraid of damaging the object. He moved as though every step required permission.

He wasn’t failing loudly.

He was failing the way that gets you injured: quietly, stubbornly, determined to be useful even as his body disagreed.

Graham swore under his breath. “You—Rossignol, was it?—you’ve got to move with it. You’re thinking too much.”

Charlie nodded like he’d been slapped with a new rule. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

There it was again. The apology reflex. The same one in bright tiles.

I felt that familiar, cold irritation—not at Charlie, but at the waste of him.

I watched for ten seconds. That’s all you need, if you know what you’re looking at.

He wasn’t lazy. He wasn’t trying to dodge work. He was protecting the bench from scratches while failing to protect his spine. He was allocating his care to the wrong thing because no one had ever taught him where care belongs.

I stepped forward.

“Graham.”

My voice didn’t climb. It didn’t need to. I pitched it the way you pitch a note you expect people to tune to.

He turned, saw me, and his face flickered through a quick sequence: recognition, calculation, resignation. We’d spoken twice since dawn. Both times he’d been pleasantly surprised that I didn’t waste his time.

“Celeste,” he said, and then glanced back at Charlie as if Charlie were a minor disaster he’d been trying to quietly clean up. “He’s new.”

“I can see,” I replied.

Charlie looked up at the sound of my voice and went still.

It wasn’t even conscious. His whole body simply paused, as if some part of him had been waiting for a familiar instruction.

His eyes met mine and something in his expression tightened and brightened all at once — that same struck quality, the sense that my presence rearranged the air around him. It made my stomach do a small, satisfied turn.

Not because I enjoyed being worshipped.

Because it meant he’d listen.

I didn’t smile at him. Not yet. Smiles are currency; you spend them deliberately.

I looked at the bench, then at his hands. “Put it down.”

Charlie hesitated, glancing at Graham as if permission needed to come from the biggest man in the area.

I held Charlie’s gaze. “Now.”

He obeyed. The bench thudded to the ground, and he swayed slightly as the weight left his arms. He tried to hide it. He did a terrible job.

Graham rubbed a hand over his face. “He volunteered for Maintenance. I didn’t—”

“I’m not blaming you,” I said. “I’m reallocating him.”

Graham’s eyebrows rose. “You’re what?”

I turned my clipboard slightly so he could see the roster entry without me having to perform it. Rossignol, Charles. Maintenance (temp).

“He’s no use to you,” I said, matter-of-fact. “Not like this.”

“He needs to toughen up,” Graham replied, automatically—then caught himself, because he wasn’t stupid. His eyes flicked to Charlie’s narrow shoulders, to the way Charlie stood as if his bones were negotiable. “Or… he needs a different job.”

“That,” I said, pleased. “Exactly.”

Graham blew out a breath. “Wardrobe’s not exactly a holiday.”

“It’s not about comfort,” I said. “It’s about fit.”

Charlie’s head turned slightly, as if the word had hooked inside him.

Graham tried one last token pushback—because hierarchy demands you don’t hand over a worker without at least performing resistance. “He’s on my list. I’m short too.”

“And I’m down two staff and one catastrophic zipper away from humiliating your donor base,” I replied, bland as milk. “If you want the patrons complaining to your office about ‘lack of authenticity’ because a bodice popped open on the main path, you can keep him.”

Graham stared at me.

Then his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “You’ve got a tongue on you.”

“I’ve got a job on me,” I corrected.

He looked at Charlie again, weighing him properly now—not as labour, but as risk. “He’s going to hurt himself,” he muttered, as if saying it out loud made it true enough to act on.

“Yes,” I said. “And I don’t like paperwork.”

Graham jerked his chin at Charlie. “Alright. Take him. But if he’s useless—”

“He won’t be,” I said. And because I didn’t do charity, I added, quietly: “Not in my system.”

Charlie’s throat worked. “I—I didn’t ask—”

“I know,” I said, and finally let him have a small smile. Not warm. Not flirtatious. Simply: you’re safe enough to breathe.

He looked like he’d been given permission to exist.

I turned and started walking toward the costume rooms without waiting to see if he followed.

He did.

Of course he did.

I heard his footsteps behind me—too careful, too light—matching my pace like an instinct.

After a few metres I said, without turning, “Don’t apologise.”

Silence.

Then, softly: “Okay.”

Good.

We reached the wardrobe door. I pulled the key ring out, selected the right key without looking, and opened it.

“Rule one,” I said, stepping inside. “If you touch a garment, you touch it like it’s alive.”

Charlie paused on the threshold, as if he’d just crossed into a different country.

I glanced over my shoulder at him. “And rule two: if anyone asks why you’re here—”

“You were with me,” he said, very quietly.

I felt the smile return, sharp and private.

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”

Heppened on DA

"Hang on, let me get a picture!" "Hey-ho, it's Charlie's mum - she's home. Don't worry, Charlie, we'll explain!" "Charlotte? Is that you?" "Whoa, Charlie's mum just called her, er, him, 'Charlotte'!" "Hi girls, who's up for Cold Rock? My shout - come as you are..." "Um, I'll go change..." "Oh no Charlotte, especially YOU come as you are! You're one of US now!"

“Hang on—photo. You look unreal.” “Hey-ho, your mum’s home.” “Don’t panic,” one of the girls whispered. “We’ll explain.” From the driveway: “Charlotte? Is that you?” Four faces snapped toward Charlie. “Mum...” Mum’s smile landed like a parachute. “Hi, girls. Ice cream? Cold Rock. My shout.” Charlie glanced down at the satin. “I’ll… go change.” Mum waved a hand, breezy. “Only if you want to. Otherwise, let’s go. Life’s too short.” One of the girls grinned. “Told you. No drama.”

“Just look at you. You’re gorgeous.” Charlie swallowed, cheeks warm. “It’s… a lot.” “It’s perfect,” Celeste said, and her voice had that bright sincerity that made the crowd disappear. “The heels. The colour. The whole you of it.” “I wasn’t sure I could do the station like this.” “You already are.” Celeste smiled. “And you’re doing it on your terms.” He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. “Just get back from Perth.” “I will,” she promised. “And when I do, we’re not doing ‘crazy.’ We’re doing good. Dinner. Music. Laughing. Ordinary things—while you look like someone who belongs in her own life.”

key Tags for DA

friendship, support, kindness, gentle, comfort, selfconfidence, belonging, comingofage, sliceoflife, trainstation, travel, fashion, outfit, style,consent, boundaries, agency, selfrespect, commentary, critique

bodyneutrality, consent, boundaries, agency, womensvoices, fashion, fit, selfrespect, commentary,---

Here’s a safe tag pack for that “station / Perth / reassurance” piece — designed to pull “More Like This” toward friendship, tenderness, agency, style, and coming-of-age, and away from anything coercive/fetish-coded.

self-image, quiet morning, paris apartment, soft light, sunday, boudoir portrait, intimate portrait, femininity, womanhood, self acceptance, body neutrality, daydream, gentle, cinematic

For Historical Costume:

These images are technical and narrative studies: fabric behavior, seams, silhouette, and mood. I’m moving toward women-forward storytelling, craft, and lived experience.

historicalcostume, historicalfashion, costumehistory, textilecraft, sewing, dressmaking, handsewing, fabrictexture, linen, lacing, perioddress, livinghistory, narrativeart, characterstudy, sliceoflife, womensstories, womeninart, cinematiclight, sunrise, travel

  • friendship
  • support
  • kindness
  • gentle
  • comfort
  • selfconfidence
  • belonging
  • comingofage
  • sliceoflife
  • trainstation
  • travel
  • fashion (or outfit / style)

Optional “story” tags (if you want it clearly read as narrative)

  • microfiction
  • characterstudy
  • dialogue
  • storytelling

Tags I’d avoid on this one

  • feminization / forcedfem / sissy / humiliation / makeover / genderbend (all steer the recommender straight back into the swamp)
  • princess / babydoll / doll (often gets misread, even if you mean it innocently)

If you tell me the exact title you’re posting under (even roughly), I can tailor the tags a bit more (e.g., swap fashion for costume if it’s explicitly “Wardrobe is a job” universe).

Some people are small. Some people become smaller. Some people have always been that way. It isn’t a joke and it isn’t a defect — it’s just a body. This isn’t about pressure, humiliation, or “making” anyone do anything. It’s about fit, comfort, and the normal, practical reality that size labels don’t map neatly onto humans. If you’re reading this as coercion, you’re reading the wrong story.

'Artists' note: I’m keeping one or two older “edge” images as reminders of what this gallery used to signal. The direction now is agency, dignity, and real-world empathy. Yeah, I'm changing things a bit. I can do that.

Prompting for Masking

Oh this lands, Robyn — and it lands in exactly the “women’s lived calibration” register you’ve been steering toward.

What’s working (a lot)

  • The contrast reads instantly: Mum in modern “get-through-the-day” clothes vs Charlie in full period black. That’s the whole point without a single explanatory tag.
  • Charlie’s expression is right: not melodramatic, not thrilled — just watchful, bracing, internally measuring the room. That’s how a lot of women look when they’re “fine” but running the risk-calculator anyway.
  • Mum’s body language helps: she’s mid-explain, hands open, practical. Not coercive. Not mocking. It positions her as ally/translator, which is a powerful antidote to the old tone.
  • The suitcase is an excellent grounding object. It makes it travel, not theatre. It says: “We’re doing this in public.”

The “flat-chested” bonus

Yep — it adds veracity because it keeps the silhouette honest. In this exact context (public travel, apprehension, attention), “flat-chested” reads as less cosplay / less male-gaze cue, more “this is a body under clothing.” So: win.

If you want to lock that in reliably next time, the trick is to describe the garment logic rather than the body:

Prompt add-ons (SRPO/Flux style):

  • “flat chest, no cleavage, modest neckline, high chemise under bodice, smooth front panel, no bust shaping”
  • “period day dress worn for travel, practical fit, not styled for seduction”
  • “natural face, minimal makeup, unglamorous realism”

Negative/avoid phrasing:

  • avoid “lingerie”, “push-up”, “plunging neckline”, “corset cleavage”, “busty”, “voluptuous”

That keeps the model from “helpfully” inventing curves.

Tiny tweaks that would make the message even cleaner

These are optional, but they’d push it further away from any dopamine-coded read:

  1. Neckline: even a small fichu/kerchief or a slightly higher chemise edge peeking out instantly says “daywear / propriety” rather than “costume drama allure.”
  2. Shoes: if the model gives you heels, swap to flat boots (button boots, ankle boots) — it reads “commuting” not “performing.”
  3. Mum’s protective micro-gesture: if you ever re-roll, try Mum lightly touching his upper arm or standing half a step “between” him and the platform — it visually communicates female protection tactics without preaching.

Caption idea (if you want it to sting, gently)

You’ve already got the tone. Something like:

“It’s not the dress. It’s the attention. Mum: ‘You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Just stay close, and keep moving.’”

That frames the whole image as safety strategy, not “oh look, dress.”

Story insight you’ve accidentally nailed

Charlie being apprehensive but compliant is a great “progress marker” because it’s not submissive fantasy — it’s social navigation. He’s learning the thing women learn: how to occupy public space when you might become a topic.

If you do a follow-up image later, you can show the next step: same setting, similar outfit — but Charlie’s posture is a fraction more settled, because the support system is now internalised. That’s the arc.

If you want, paste the prompt you used for this one (even rough), and I’ll suggest 6–8 surgical edits to make “public caution / travel practicality / flat chest / non-sexual wardrobe brief” even more reproducible.

Read The Room

"You see, Charl, they’re less like 'I enjoy being with this person' or 'I enjoy that particular art piece' and more about a private part of their bedroom they return to. You’re basically seeing what they collect, what they want on-demand, what mood they’re curating for themselves, and what they feel entitled to.

"That’s why the pushback is so weirdly personal. If your art was just art to them, your pivot wouldn't feels like you "broke their stash". You didn’t. But that’s how they experience it.

"You've already been clocked as a woman: and so, once you stopped providing what he wanted, he switched to dismissal, mockery, and entitlement. That little pivot is the patriarchy micro-behaviour in miniature:"

'You’re pleasing, so I’m warm.' 'You’re not pleasing, so you’re defective or crazy or dishonest.'

"It’s not about you being “right” or “wrong.” It’s about compliance. Also, when someone with an axe to grind loudly announces they’re leaving, treat it like the news it has started to drizzle: no chase, no sarcasm, no long explanation. A simple “Understood” (or nothing at all) is weirdly powerful."

Scene 3

Wardrobe

[Publish]

Scene 3 ✨ Wardrobe ✨

Wardrobe had its own weather.

Not outside weather — not sun or rain — but a constant, indoor climate of steam and cloth-dust and warmed metal. The air tasted faintly of detergent and starch and something older that lived in wool no matter how many times you cleaned it: sheep, lanolin, history.

The room itself was a maze of rails and racks, garment bags whispering against each other whenever someone brushed past. Stacked crates were stencilled with MARA’S handwriting — not the tidy school handwriting people used when they wanted to impress teachers, but the blunt, efficient strokes of someone who labelled everything because she didn’t like losing time to idiots. A long trestle table ran down the centre like an altar, currently piled with a half-dressed mannequin and a skirt turned inside-out, hemline pinned up like a patient on a hospital bed.

Mara stood over it with her chin tucked, a bodice in her hands, and the look she wore when something had disappointed her. Which was most things.

“Hold it.” She spoke firmly, without looking up.

I froze with a hanger halfway to a rail. Mara didn’t need to raise her voice or say your name. Her authority lived in the fact that she expected you to obey and had no interest in negotiating about it. She turned the bodice over and jabbed a fingertip at a seam.

“This. Who did this?”

I moved closer, careful not to bump the steamer hose that snaked across the floor like a sleeping animal. There were at least three botched attempts at seam repair.

“Which one?”

Mara’s eyes flicked to me — a quick, unimpressed glance that somehow conveyed: don’t be clever. She pinched the fabric and tugged. The seam puckered slightly, like a forced smile. “Whoever did this sewed with fear.”

I leaned in. The stitches were tight, too tight, as if the person had been trying to prove something to the thread.

“They were worried it wouldn’t hold.”

Mara snorted.

“It won’t hold because they were worried. That’s the irony.” She flipped the bodice again and thrust it at me. “Unpick it. Do it properly. Not fast. Properly.”

There was no harshness, not exactly. Mara was not warm, but she was honest in the way that mattered: she treated workmanship as a form of respect. If she corrected you, it meant she thought you were capable of being corrected.

I took the bodice, feeling the weight of it — the underlining, the interlining, the bones that gave it a spine. The kind of garment that made you understand, viscerally, why women in paintings stood the way they did.

Mara turned away. “If you ever bring me a hem stitched with fear, I’ll make you wear it.”

I smiled despite myself. “That’s a bit extreme.”

“That’s how you learn.” She reached for a tin of pins, shook it once, and caught three between her fingers without looking. “Go on.”

I carried the bodice to the end of the table, sat, and began to unpick the seam with the seam ripper Mara insisted we call a lame because she said if you worked in costume long enough you ended up sounding like you were auditioning for a museum.

I liked Wardrobe because it wasn’t school. School rewarded performance: hands up, shouted answers, wearing confidence like a costume, not caring whether or not it fit. Wardrobe rewarded something quieter: attention, patience, care. You could be brilliant here without having to announce it.

I worked for a few minutes, the thread giving way with soft little snaps, until Mara’s voice cut across the room again.

“Did you bring the inventory sheet?”

“It’s on the clipboard by the haberdashery shelf.”

“And did you sign out the spools you took yesterday?”

“Yes.”

Mara’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, more like an acknowledgement that I was at least trying to be competent. She moved around the room, checking rails, touching fabric, straightening labels. Mara had a way of handling garments that was almost reverent without being sentimental, like a mechanic wiping an engine block. She didn’t coo over pretty things. She respected construction.

“You’re late for your break.”

“I’m not hungry,” I replied, automatically.

Mara’s eyes sharpened. “That’s not the point.”

I paused with the seam ripper. “What is the point, then?”

“The point,” she said, “is that you don’t get to build a future on fumes. You’ll burn out and then you’ll be useful to nobody, including yourself.”

She said it bluntly — useful to nobody. This was Mara being kind. Mara’s kindness wasn’t soft: it was preventative maintenance. I set the bodice down, let out a small breath.

“Fine. Ten minutes.”

Mara waved a hand, as if she’d won an argument she hadn’t needed to have.

“Good girl.”

I rolled my eyes, but it didn’t bite the way it would have from someone else. Mara used language like a tool: blunt, functional, occasionally barbed. If she called you “good girl,” it wasn’t condescension: it was her honest appraisal. I stood, stretched my shoulders, and headed toward the tiny back kitchenette that barely deserved the name — a bench, a sink, a kettle, and a jar of instant coffee that tasted like burnt regret. I’d just filled the kettle when the door to Wardrobe banged open.

A man in a hi-vis vest and work boots stepped into the doorway as if he’d been told the room was his and believed it. He had a cap on, and a face that looked permanently sunburnt in the way outdoors men often did: weathered, practical, slightly annoyed by all indoor occupations.

“Far-out,” he said, eyes flicking over the room. “It’s like walking into a bloody op shop in here.”

Mara turned very slowly. The look she gave him could have stripped paint.

“Graham.”

He grinned, unbothered. He had the easy confidence of someone who was used to being forgiven for taking up space.

“Mara,” he replied, like they were old enemies in a war where neither side had ever surrendered. His gaze slid past her and caught me. “Oh. It’s you. Fancy seeing you outside school.”

I raised my eyebrows. “It’s almost like I work here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved it away. “Anyway... why I’m here. I need you to sign off on the replacement for the steamer. The old one’s cactus.”

Mara made a noise that stood for agreement.

“You put that in writing?”

“I did!” Graham reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded form, already crumpled like it had lived with coins. He slapped it on the table. “Here. Now, got me a separate problem.”

Mara’s eyes didn’t look up from the paper.

“If it's your problem, why are you telling me?”

“Because,” Graham said, exhaling through his nose, “someone up top decided I needed help. They sent me this kid.”

Mara’s attention sharpened. Mine did too, without my permission. Graham leaned his hip against a rack of cloaks as if it was a wall. The cloaks swayed, offended.

“This kid,” he continued, “is too small, too weak, and too bloody... I don’t know. He’s just not built for hard yakka. I’m not running a daycare.”

Mara’s voice was flat.

“Well, if he’s a kid, he shouldn’t be in maintenance anyway.”

“He’s not a kid.” Graham rubbed his jaw, annoyed. “He’s eighteen. But he looks about fourteen and he’s got arms like pipe cleaners. I put him on basic stuff — carrying, fetching, holding ladders — and he’s hopeless. He’s polite, I’ll give him that. He tries. But he’s going to get hurt.”

I felt my grip tighten slightly on the kettle handle. Graham went on, warming to his complaint.

“You tell him to grab the toolbox, he grabs it like it’s going to bite him. You tell him to hold a ladder and he holds it like he’s apologising to it. He’s... he’s not useless, exactly, but he’s just wrong for the job.”

Mara finally looked down at the paper he’d slapped on the table. “What’s his name?”

Graham hesitated for half a second, not because he didn’t know, but because names had weight here. Once you said a name in Mara’s domain, you were acknowledging a person.

“Chuck,” he said. “Charles. Rossignol.”

The kettle clicked as it finished boiling. The sound was absurdly loud. My spine went very still. Mara’s eyes flicked to me. She had a way of reading a room that made her frightening.

“You know him.”

“I do.”

Graham looked between us. “You do?”

“I do,” I repeated, calm because if I wasn’t calm I’d start feeling things, and feelings were messy. “From school.”

Graham made a face. “Of course you do. Everyone’s from school. It’s a plague.”

Mara folded her arms. “And you’re here to tell me you’re going to sack him.”

“I am,” Graham said, relieved to return to the point. “He’s slowing the team down. And before you get all soft about it — I can’t keep someone who’s going to put his fingers through a band saw because he’s too timid to say he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Why put him near a band saw?”

“I wouldn't,” Graham snapped, then caught himself and softened it a fraction. “You're missing my point. I’m saying he’s not suited. That’s all.”

“He asked to stay, didn't he?” I spoke before I could stop myself. Graham’s eyes flicked to me, surprised.

“Well yeah. He did. That’s what makes it worse.”

“Why?”

“Because he looked like he was about to cry,” Graham said, bluntly. Crying was an inconvenience. “He kept saying he needed the money, he needed the work, he’d do anything. It felt like a hostage situation.”

Mara’s face didn’t change, but something in her eyes cooled.

“Did you offer him other tasks?”

Graham shrugged. “There aren’t other tasks. It’s maintenance, Mara.”

“That’s your lack of imagination speaking,” Mara said, dry.

Graham huffed. “See? This is why I try not to come in here. You lot live in a different world.”

Mara’s mouth twitched. “You’re the one who walked in.”

I set the kettle down slowly.

“So, he didn’t refuse my suggestion,” I said, more to myself than to them. “He just... took what he thought he should take.”

Mara’s gaze held mine.

“What did you suggest to him?”

I weighed it. Mara didn’t like speeches, and she didn’t do pity. But she respected plans.

“I told him in maths,” I said, “that if we worked well together I might have something for him after graduation. A project. Real work, not school. So, when he didn’t show today, I assumed he had decided not to.”

Graham snorted. “You were offering him this kind of work?”

“Well, you said it yourself: he’s doing the wrong sort of work at the moment.”

Graham gave a scoff laugh. “So, you’re going to put him in here? With the dresses?”

Mara’s gaze cut to him like a blade.

“Say ‘dresses’ again like that and I’ll put you in one.”

Graham held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. Alright. I’m just saying...”

“...the same thing men always say when they don’t understand labour they can’t muscle around,” Mara finished for him.

His eyebrows rose. “Here we go.”

Mara leaned forward slightly, voice even. “Wardrobe is not a refuge. It is not a therapy room. I don’t take strays.” I nodded. It wasn't going to land with Graham, but it was true. Mara continued, eyes cold. “I take workers.”

Graham shrugged. “Fine. Good luck with that. He’s not a worker. He’s...”

“He is a worker,” I said, quietly. “Just not the sort you’re used to.”

Mara’s eyes flicked back to me, eyes piercing.

“You think he can work in here? What makes you think so?”

“His hands,” I said. “His eyes. His patience.” I kept it clinical. “He draws like someone who thinks in structure, in geometry. His handwriting is neat. He listens. He doesn’t perform.”

Graham snorted. “That’s not a qualification.”

“It is in Wardrobe,” Mara said, without blinking.

Graham looked at her as if she’d just claimed gravity was optional. “You’re serious.”

Mara reached for the bodice I’d been unpicking and held it up by the straps.

“You see this? This is engineering disguised as femininity. It’s measurements and force and sweat and physics. We don’t need biceps. We need brains.”

Graham’s mouth opened, then shut. Things involving intellect was out of his depth. He glanced at me. “So, you think he's this boy wonder?”

“I’m not vouching for his character,” I said, and it surprised even me how easily it came out. “I’m vouching for his hands.”

Mara’s eyes narrowed in approval. Not warmth: respect.

Graham scratched his jaw, dubious. “Alright. But if he’s a liability, don't come crying to...”

“He won’t be your liability,” Mara cut in. “If I take him, he answers to me.”

Graham shrugged. “Fine. You want him, take him. But I’m not babysitting him until you decide.”

Mara’s gaze was steady. “You're not meant to babysit. You're meant to supervise. There’s a difference.”

Graham exhaled, annoyed but not combative. “When can you take him? Because I can’t have him underfoot tomorrow when we’re moving the fencing.”

Mara didn’t look at me when she spoke. “Look, we don’t just ‘take’ him. First, we trial him.”

Graham frowned. “Trial him?”

“Trial shift,” Mara said. “One day. He shows up on time. He listens. He follows instruction. He's not a larrikin. He does not wander. He keeps his hands clean and his mouth cleaner.”

Graham barked a laugh. “You run a tight ship.”

“I run a ship that won’t sink.” Her eyes slid to me now. “And you, Celeste, you're do to ‘save’ him. You don’t coddle him. You don’t make him your pet project.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Mara held my gaze. “Good. Because if he comes in here and thinks he’s protected by you, he’ll behave like a protected boy. He’ll test boundaries and blame women for having them.” Mara continued, voice firm. “If he comes in here, he earns his place like everyone else. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Graham shifted, uncomfortable again. “So what, you want me to send him over?”

“No,” Mara said. “I want him to choose to come.”

The words landed cleanly. Good. That’s how we avoided rescue. Mara reached for a small pad and scribbled something in her sharp handwriting. She tore off the page and held it out to Graham.

“What’s that?”

“Time. Location. Who to ask for,” Mara said. “When you give it to him, tell him: if he wants a trial, he's to turn up here, at Wardrobe, tomorrow morning. If he doesn’t want it, you sack him and no one feels guilty.”

Graham stared at the paper like it had teeth. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m fair,” Mara corrected. “Ruthless is sacking someone because they can’t lift like a grown man.”

Graham’s ears reddened. “Oi.”

Mara tilted her head. “Am I wrong?”

He looked away. “No.”

Mara turned her gaze back to me. “You can tell him too, if you want. But you don’t chase him. You don’t plead. You don’t sell it like a lifeline.”

I smiled, small and sharp. “I don’t plead.”

“Good. Then go and be useful. I’ve got work.”

Graham shoved the paper into his pocket and pointed at Mara’s replacement form on the table. “Sign, please.”

Mara picked up the pen, signed without looking, and slid it back. “Get out.”

Graham grinned again, like he enjoyed being told off by competent women. “Lovely chat. Always a pleasure to be insulted in a room full of frocks.”

Mara’s voice was silky. “Say ‘frocks’ again and I’ll hang you with one.”

Graham laughed and left, the door banging loudly behind him. The moment he was gone, the air settled.

Mara picked up the bodice again, examined the seam I’d been unpicking and redone. “Better.”

I exhaled, the tension bleeding out of my shoulders. “He begged?”

Mara didn’t look up. “Graham didn't deny it.”

“He’s not theatrical,” I said, more to myself than to her. “He wouldn’t beg unless he...”

“Unless he was desperate,” Mara finished, matter-of-fact. “That’s what poverty does. It makes dignity negotiable.”

The bluntness of it struck me. Mara had no patience for pretty stories. She knew what scarcity did to people. I picked up my phone from the bench, thumb hovering over nothing.

“Go on your break, Celeste.” Mara’s gaze held mine for a second longer. Then she returned to her work. “Ten minutes,” she said. “Then you come back and finish that seam. If Charlie turns up tomorrow, you’re on rails and pin duty. You keep him busy. You do not hover. You do not mother. You do not flirt.”

“I don’t flirt,” I said, offended on principle.

Mara made a soft sound that might have been amusement.

“Of course you don’t.”

I rolled my eyes and moved toward the door. As I stepped into the corridor outside Wardrobe, the noise of the faire changed — less muffled, more alive. Somewhere outside, tourists laughed. A bell rang. Someone yelled about a lost hat. The smell of hot chips drifted in from the food court like a betrayal of all our careful historical illusions.

I walked fast, not running — running looked like need. The maintenance compound sat behind the main buildings, past a cluster of props and a row of portable toilets that always made the “authentic eighteenth century experience” feel like a joke. The path was half gravel, half mud. A pallet of timber sat near a fence, and a stack of metal poles leaned precariously against a wall. Graham was there, bent over a toolbox, swearing softly as he dug for something. And beside him—

Charlie.

He was holding the base of a ladder while Graham climbed it, the ladder angled against a wall. Charlie’s hands were white-knuckled on the rails. His shoulders were tight. His gaze was fixed upward, not watching Graham’s feet so much as watching for the moment the world would punish him for existing. He looked, in that moment, exactly as he had in the girls’ toilets: caught, trying to be small.

Graham climbed down, grumbling, and slapped the wall. “There. Fixed.”

Charlie loosened his grip slightly, but didn’t step away. Graham pulled the folded scrap of paper from his pocket and held it out. Charlie took it as if it might be a citation.

“What’s that?” Charlie asked, voice quiet.

Graham gestured vaguely toward the main buildings. “Wardrobe. Trial shift. Mara’s rules. You want it, you show up. You don’t, you don't. In any case, you’re done here.”

Charlie stared at the paper, then at Graham. “Why...”

“Don’t ask me,” Graham said, already turning away. “Ask the women. They run that cave.”

Charlie’s eyes dropped to the page again. His fingers tightened around it. I stood a few metres away, unseen, and watched him. He didn’t look triumphant. He didn’t look relieved. He looked like someone who’d been offered a door and wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch the handle. Good. Because doors weren’t gifts. They were choices.

I waited until Graham disappeared into the shed, then stepped forward into Charlie’s line of sight. He flinched — the small, automatic startle of someone who didn’t expect anyone to approach him with intention. His gaze snapped to my face, and the recognition hit him like a wave. For a moment he went still in that deer way again, caught between running and apologising.

“Celeste,” he said, as if saying my name might summon rules.

“Charlie,” I replied, evenly. “You’re alive.”

His throat bobbed. “I... yeah.”

He glanced past me, as if expecting an audience. There was none: only the distant fair noise and the buzz of flies around the bins. I nodded at the paper in his hand.

“That’s Mara’s trial shift.”

He looked down at it, his face flushed. “I didn’t - I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“I assumed you’d decided not to,” I said with a shrug. And kept my tone neutral: No accusation or disappointment. Just a statement of fact.

His shoulders drew in. “I needed - um, actual work.”

“I know.” In spite myself, I felt my eyebrows raise.

He noticed and swallowed. “Maintenance... it’s-." He faltered. "I’m not good at it.”

“I see.”

I tried not to sound cruel, just accurate. Accuracy was a kindness when it stopped you wasting time. He stared at me, eyes flicking quickly over my face as if searching for mockery.

He found none.

I leaned slightly closer, lowering my voice to keep it between us.

“This isn’t charity,” I said, pointing at the paper in his hand. “Wardrobe doesn’t do charity. Wardrobe does work.”

His gaze flicked up. “Why do you think—”

“Because you can work,” I said. “You just need the right lane.” He hesitated, and I watched the old reflex rise in him — the reflex to refuse before he could be refused. His mouth opened. I lifted a finger, not to silence him, but to slow him.

“Listen. Mara’s rules are strict. She’s not warm. She doesn’t care about your story. She cares about whether you show up and do what you’re told.”

His fingers curled harder around the paper.

“And,” I added, because it mattered, “you are allowed to say no. If you don’t want it, you don’t take it. You won’t be punished for refusing.”

His eyes widened slightly, as if that sentence hadn’t existed in his world before. I held his gaze for a beat, then stepped back. Space mattered. Choice needed air.

“Seven-thirty,” I said, nodding at the paper. “If you’re there, you’re there. If you’re not, I’ll assume you made other plans.”

He swallowed. “You... you wouldn’t be angry?”

I almost smiled. Almost.

“I don’t get angry about other people’s choices,” I said. “I get bored.”

His mouth twitched — the ghost of a smile — then disappeared as quickly as it came. But his shoulders loosened a fraction. Good. Humour, used properly, gave people dignity. I turned to leave. Behind me, he spoke — quiet, but clear.

“Celeste.”

I stopped without turning. Let him have the floor.

“I... I can do detail,” he said, as if confessing some secret. “I can - I can learn fast if someone shows me.”

I turned then, slowly, and looked at him properly.

“That’s how I know that I’m not wasting my time.”

His eyes held mine, startled again by the bluntness of being valued. With a quick nod I walked away, back toward Wardrobe, back into steam and cloth-dust and the woman who didn’t take strays. And behind me, in the maintenance yard, a boy stood with a folded scrap of paper in his hand, staring at a door he’d never expected to be shown.

Not a lifeline: a lane. A place he could earn.

And, if he chose it, keep.