The wardrobe suite in the main building was a mausoleum of silk and tulle. Rolling racks of costumes for The Gilded Cage lined the walls, shrouded in protective plastic that crinkled like dry skin every time the air conditioning kicked on. The lighting was surgical—harsh, overhead LEDs that made every stitch on the garments look like a wire.
"The head of wardrobe is just grabbing the accessories from the vault," Leo Hart said, his voice smooth and too loud for the small dressing nook he’d led me into. "Why don’t you get into the first look? The white Victorian slip. We need to see how the fabric moves against your skin."
He didn't leave. He stood by the velvet curtain, his hands tucked into the pockets of his linen trousers, watching me with a clinical, detached hunger.
"I’ll need a min
