A thin red line had risen across her fingertips where she had touched the altered band.
For one second, no one spoke.
Then Cosima’s pen hit the page.
“Mark response observed before sleeve fastening,” she said.
The woman stared at her hand.
Rev reached toward me, too far away to steady me and trying anyway.
Caswell’s gaze landed on the burn.
Then on my wrist.
Then on Cosima’s page.
“Verita,” he said, “will you permit the left sleeve to be fastened?”
“No,” I said.
The small basin flickered.
The word stayed in the room.
Caswell’s gaze went to the water but no new instruction came.
“Record the refusal and complete the fitting without the sleeve fastened,” he growled.
Rev let out the breath she had been pretending not to hold, and Cosima wrote almost feverishly.
The fitting continued.
They pinned the hem. Adjusted the waist. Measured the shoulders. Spoke over me in short, careful sentences that did not mention Marks, quieting, or refusal.
At the end, the dress came off, and Rev helped me into my coat before anyone could offer.
Cosima closed her notebook.
Caswell faced all three of us.
“This fitting is incomplete.”
“And?” I said.
His attention settled on me.
“That will be recorded.”
“Fine.”
Cosima wrote that down too.
Rev picked up the tray of pins.
“Do I need to return these somewhere,” she asked, “or is everyone pretending I was never here?”
No one answered.
