The afternoon arrived with a flurry of activity inside Vance Manor. Clara sat on a plush velvet armchair in the center of her massive dressing room, listening closely to the unusual chaotic sounds around her. There was the rustling of heavy fabrics, the rolling clicks of clothing racks, and the hushed, nervous whispers of several strangers.
"Careful with that one! If a single sequin is damaged, Mr. Vance will ensure none of us ever work in Northwood City again," a woman’s sharp, anxious voice ordered from a few feet away.
Clara wrapped her fingers tightly around the armrests. Being blind made every sound magnified, every whisper heavy with hidden meaning. She felt exposed, like a mannequin being prepared for a show.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the dressing room groaned open.
