"And the music? What track will you be performing to?"
The music.
I've been thinking about this for days—running through options, discarding possibilities, searching for the perfect combination of sound and emotion.
"Summer Walker," I say finally. "A mashup, probably. Starting with something darker, building to something more hopeful." A pause. "I'm still working out the specifics."
Marguerite nods like this is perfectly reasonable.
Of course it is, I realize.
This is what she does.
This is her expertise.
"Let me show you some pieces," she says, rising. "I have a few ideas that might align with your vision."
What follows is an education.
Fabrics I've never heard of, with properties I didn't know existed. Costumes that transform—panels that can be removed mid-performance, colors that shift under different lighting, construction that allows for maximum movement without sacrificing visual impact.
I try on piece after piece.
Some are immediately wrong—beautiful, but notmine. Others are closer, capturing elements of what I'm looking for but missing the whole.
"The bodice is good," I say, examining myself in a three-way mirror. "But the skirt is too heavy. I need to be able to move. Really move."
"Of course."
Marguerite makes a note.
Another piece appears.
We adjust, refine, discard.
My body starts to ache—the particular kind of tired that comes from hours of changing clothes, of standing under bright lights, of trying to translate internal vision into external reality.
But I'm also... excited.
Actually excited.
When was the last time I felt excited about something that wasn't violence?
The thought makes me giggle.
Softly.
To myself.
"Are you alright, miss?"
Marguerite's voice is concerned.
"Fine." I wave a hand. "Just... having feelings. They're weird. I'm not used to them."
She doesn't ask for clarification.
Professional.
