The Dressing Room

The brass hook above Mara’s head trembled whenever someone pulled the dressing-room curtain. It had been painted white three times, but a crescent of old blue showed through beneath the chipped enamel, like a bruise no one had managed to cover.

“Turn around, please.”

The assistant’s voice came from the other side of the curtain.

Mara pressed herself into the narrow space between the wall and a rack of gowns. Silk brushed her cheek. Somewhere beyond the mirror, hangers clicked along a rail, and a woman laughed at something Jonas Kestrel had said. The boutique was busy enough to hide one extra breath, but not one careless movement.

“I said turn around.”

The curtain rings scraped.

Mara closed her fingers around the misprinted receipt in her pocket. The paper had gone soft from being folded and unfolded, its ink bleeding where Jonas’s name had been stamped twice. One door in this shop was beyond his reach. She needed to find it before he finished choosing her clothes, before he looked too closely at the way she watched the staff.

The assistant tugged the curtain aside.

Mara slid one foot behind the other and held still.

A woman in a green velvet dress stood before the mirror, turning obediently while the assistant smoothed the seam at her waist. The dressing room beside hers was empty. Its curtain hung open, revealing a low stool, a heap of discarded coats, and a gilt mirror angled toward the corridor.

The assistant glanced down the row.

Mara saw only his reflection: a narrow young man with silver scissors hanging from a cord around his neck. His eyes moved from curtain to curtain, checking each gap. He had done it twice already.

“Mr. Kestrel asked for the blue coat,” the woman said.

“He asked for the blue coat on the second fitting,” the assistant replied. “That was before the hem was altered.”

“Then ask him again.”

“I’ll do that.”

He did not leave.

His reflection turned toward Mara’s curtain.

The dressing room’s back wall pressed cold through her blouse. She could feel the rough plaster against her shoulder blade. Behind the gowns, a narrow service door had appeared when she had shifted the rack earlier, its edge nearly invisible beneath a strip of floral wallpaper. She had seen the door only because the receipt had directed her eyes toward the rear of the shop. A door Jonas could not access. A back room, perhaps. A way out, if she could reach it.

But the assistant kept checking.

The woman in green stepped out of her shoes. “I need the fitting finished.”

“You’ll need to wait.”

“For what?”

“For the room to clear.”

Mara’s pulse stumbled.

The assistant bent to gather the discarded coats. His hand disappeared behind the curtain beside her. A sleeve dragged across the floor, then another. He was clearing the rooms one by one.

She looked at the mirror.

Its angle showed her reflection in fragments: one eye, the pale edge of her jaw, the black ribbon of Jonas’s chosen dress beneath her coat. He had picked the dress himself, a severe gray thing with a high collar and hidden pockets. He chose the clothes. She had planned the escape.

The plan had required another twenty minutes.

She had expected Jonas to remain at the front counter while the tailor measured the woman in green. She had expected the assistant to take the receipt to the stockroom. She had not expected him to return early, or to begin locking the dressing rooms.

The assistant straightened.

His reflection met hers.

Mara stopped breathing.

For one suspended second, neither of them moved. Then the woman in green knocked a shoe against the stool.

“Are you coming?”

The assistant looked away. “In a moment.”

Mara’s hand found the service door behind the gowns. The knob was cold brass. She turned it a fraction.

Locked.

A faint metallic clink came from the corridor.

Keys.

The assistant stepped away from the neighboring curtain. Mara watched his reflection cross the mirror, silver scissors flashing at his chest. He carried a ring of keys in one hand. There were at least six, each marked with a different strip of colored thread.

He was locking the empty rooms.

Mara’s fingers tightened around the door handle. If he reached hers, the curtain would conceal her for only as long as it took him to pull it aside. The rack blocked his view, but not his hand.

She needed the keys.

The woman in green called again. “I’m not waiting all afternoon.”

The assistant muttered something under his breath and walked toward the front of the boutique.

Mara eased one gown aside. The service door showed a narrow black line. Beyond it, she heard the low hum of a motor and the clatter of dishes. The restricted back room was real. It was close enough to touch and useless without the key.

At the end of the corridor, a bell chimed as someone entered the shop.

Jonas’s voice followed, smooth and unmistakable.

“Leave the gray dress where it is. She’ll wear it.”

Mara flinched.

“She hasn’t agreed to it,” said the tailor.

“She won’t need to.”

...