The ceiling is moving with light and shadows, every inch of space occupied with large papered cutting tables, Stockman mannequins, and paper patterns. Beyond the main area is a sunny fitting room where dresses of every style hang in the air as if suspended by a gossamer thread. One dress keeps changing color and pattern, like a psychedelic kaleidoscope. Another gown is tiered and bulbous, glowing electric pink like a jellyfish. I’ve seen plenty of magic in my time, but I’ve never seen outfits like these.
“I’ve dressed many Warlocks,” says Estrella. “Only important ones, though. My favorite was in 1991. The outfit was meant to be worn at the closing ceremony of the Barcelona Olympics the following year, but then the Warlock died. Great voice. Such a tragedy. They aren’t all as good as that one.”
I look over at Beatriz and Luisa, but neither of them seems to get the reference.
“Who will be settling the bill?” Estrella asks, pausing by an old-fashioned card machine.
Beatriz points at me. “Hers is billed on the MA account, but Rafi’s needs to be split between both these cards.” She produces a credit card, and Luisa does the same.
The old woman has already taken the card out of Beatriz’s hand and is shuffling over to a set of curtains. With a wave of a crooked finger, she parts them to reveal an elaborate changing room.
“Seriously, you guys don’t need to get me a suit,” says Rafi, but he’s smiling.
“Relax, pringat, before I make you relax,” Luisa jokes.
Beatriz slings an arm around him. “Someday you will make it rain for us, Rafi. But, until then, it's our treat.”
“Boy, come with me to get measured!” Estrella snaps. “I’m running out of time.”
“But you haven’t measured me yet,” I call out to her retreating back. “And I haven’t discussed dress ideas with you. Do you have a catalog?”
Beatriz and Luisa give me a warning look, and I stop talking. Too late. Estrella whips around, her wide eyes behind her large spectacles making her look like a chameleon. “A catalog?”
She shuffles towards me, then reaches out her hand and runs it down my shoulder. Her bug-eyed gaze sweeps over me as she mutters something under her breath. Turning my head away from her feline stole, I wonder if she’s considering making me into an accessory.
This hat made of skin was a sassy Verity Witch.
I feel my skin prickle. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking your measurements and feeling your power.”
Feeling my power? Why? She’s focusing hard. With a feverish buzz, the sewing machines behind her come alive as if a hive of bees were waking all at once.
Fabric floats from the shelves to the chalk-marked table a few feet away, followed by scissors and thread.
“See?” Rafi whispers. “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.”
“Done!” Señora Estrella exclaims.
Done? How are we done?
“Boy, follow me. I’ll take your measurements in private, nothing worse than poor tailoring in the groin area,” Estrella says, looking bored at the prospect.
I watch them go, mouth wide open.
“Trust her. We get the dress that is meant to be,” Luisa explains.
“And we’re wasting time chatting. Come on!” Beatriz runs over to the two dresses suspended in the air beside us and reaches for the name tags. The two of them gasp in unison as they rip off the plastic cover and wriggle into their gowns.
“Well?”
Luisa gives me a twirl. As she spins, the elaborate black dress changes from having long sleeves to a strapless top and the train climbs higher over her thighs until it clings to her legs like a pencil skirt.
“Don’t like it?” she says.
She twirls again, and it morphs into a gown with a full skirt and a plunging sweetheart neckline that exposes her tanned chest glistening from the heat of the room. I swallow.
“That’s the one you like the most. Right?” she says, with a cheeky smile. “My dress knows. I can look however you want me to look.”
“Ignore her,” Beatriz says, adjusting her own dress. “Witches like her have no decorum.”
“Whatever, Dreamchaser.” Luisa sticks her tongue out. “Better than giving people nightmares!”
Dreamchaser? Beatriz is a fucking Dreamchaser? Witches in her faction have the ability to affect a person’s dreams and, in some cases, even their memories. I wonder, fleetingly, whether she’s always had that power. Did she alter my memory as a kid?
“Careful, Luisa,” Beatriz coos. “Or I’ll give you a sex dream with Donald Trump.”
Luisa’s dress turns into a spiky number. “You wouldn’t dare!”
I laugh, and I turn to Beatriz, who’s adjusting her own outfit.
“Wow.”
Her gown isn’t even made of fabric. She looks like she’s wrapped in black smoke, tendrils climbing up her neck and twisting around her middle. As she moves, the cloud moves with her, dark and whimsical and deadly.
A dress made of nightmares.
“Your gown is ready, Saskia!”
Luisa points at a garment bag floating my way. I reach for it and cradle it in my clammy hands. If these dresses are reflections of our inner power, then what will mine reflect? The truth? Nothing?
Maybe it will be plain and full of tiny bells that ping every time anyone speaks to me. I’m scared to look at it. Scared to see what meager offering Señora Estrella has deemed fit for such a low-ranking Witch like me.
“I can’t believe Maribel was going to ban bewitched costumes,” Luisa muses, climbing out of her dress.
“Maribel was going to cancel a lot of things,” Beatriz replies. “Can’t say I’m disappointed she won’t be at the ball this year. Every event with her there feels like being on a date while your father watches.”
“Your father is always watching,” Luisa says to her with a smirk.
I tear myself away from their outfits long enough to take in what they’re saying. They appear to like my mom, but it’s pretty clear neither of them is sad about Maribel going missing.
Interesting.
Luisa has taken off her gown but is still walking about in her black lace thong and bra like we’ve been best buddies all our lives.
“What about your dress?” she asks.
“I’m
