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The concentration on her face was so familiar that I looked from her to Duncan and nearly laughed. They resembled each other in more than dark hair; Sienna watched movement the way Duncan did, wanting to know why something worked, where it changed, and what made the effect convincing.
Duncan was patient with every question. He explained without talking down to her, and Sienna listened with her whole attention.
For several minutes, I forgot about the schedule in my hand and could imagine this happening in his workshop: Sienna at one of those scarred tables with a safe project in front of her, Duncan beside her showing her how to shape something or solve a problem. I could imagine sitting on the other side with my laptop open, listening to them disagree about some tiny creative choice while pretending I wasn’t interested.
The thought came too easily, which was the problem. I had known Duncan for one day; I shouldn’t have been able to picture myself fitting anywhere inside his life.
Yet when Sienna looked over and asked me whether the head turned late enough to scare people, answering her felt completely natural.
The afternoon kept moving.
By five, the building looked transformed.
The crew began clearing loose tools and supplies from the guest route while I checked performer arrival times and confirmed the final walkthrough schedule. Duncan made one last pass through the specialty pieces, marking the few places he wanted checked again before opening.
Sienna had returned to the prep table with her sketchbook.
When Duncan came through carrying a small case of tools, she stopped him.
“Dad, could you teach me how to make something like the scars they showed us at the costume tent?”
He slowed.
“What kind of scars?”
“Fake ones. The lady used this skin-colored stuff and makeup. Mary-Kate did a tiny one on her hand, but Lori said I should ask you before I tried anything like that.”
Duncan set the tool case on the floor.
“What did they use?”
“I don’t know the name. But I don’t mean right now. I mean sometime.”
I watched his expression change. It wasn’t anger, but something tighter.
“I don’t think you need to start making wounds and scars, sweetheart.”
Sienna’s shoulders dropped.
“It’s fake.”
“I know it’s fake.”
“And you make things like that.”
Duncan looked toward the open room behind him before returning his attention to her.
“I used to. That doesn’t mean everything I did professionally is something you need to learn at ten.”
Sienna closed the sketchbook.
“I didn’t ask to do it professionally. I asked if you could show me.”
There was enough hurt in her voice that I suddenly became very interested in the papers on my clipboard.
This wasn’t my conversation.
Duncan rubbed his palm over the back of his neck.
