by S.E. Roberts

There are fairies in the costume shop, of that much I am certain. I have never seen them (you are not supposed to) but their presence lingers, promise and threat, safety and danger. Shadows move wrong and something hover in the corners of your eyes, and if there is any sure thing, it is that you are never alone once you’re through the front door.

The shop is a warehouse three stories tall and besieged by nooks and crannies, shelves and drawers, cabinets and racks—all of them stuffed with costumes. Dresses from every era, of every color and cut. Suits, for men and women both. Skirts and blouses, vests and corsets, pants and slips and shoes and loose fabric and an inconceivable number of buttons. That’s to say nothing of the props, stacked against the walls and fighting for space in hidden bins.

And the fairies keep track of it all.

That’s why you have to be nice to them. My mom used to call me silly when I dropped something and apologized to it, but the fairies like that. The kindness is expected, not surprising. Required, even, or the garments you’re looking for vanish off the rack, rip apart at the seams, grow stains the color of muddy water. Maybe you’ll trip on an upturned corner of carpet that has always laid flat, bang your elbow against a rack that used to be taller, slip for a heart stopping moment on the top step of a ladder. Lots of things can happen in a costume shop.

There are ways to protect yourself, of course. Fresh four-leaf clovers sewn into the seams of your clothes, or printed on your shirt. Red berries tangled in your hair or woven into the flower crowns hanging on the second floor. A pinch of salt in the bottom of your shoes, or in the snacks you bring for long shifts. Iron in the blood that wells at a needle’s prick, or a rusty brooch tucked in your pocket, a silver necklace absentmindedly wound round your hand. It’s a building full of bent rules and broken expectations—even fairies have to allow for what that means.

But only being polite helps you find what you’re looking for.

As in bad faith, even their benevolent magic is only capable of small feats, but small feats are all you need. A hat that matches perfectly, though you’ve never seen it before. Careful eyes itching at your nape, guarding your step, winking in mirrors. A summer breeze with the windows closed that sends the shawl you need fluttering. Quiet tittering footsteps, something warm that curls around your shoulders like an old, weathered scarf, the garment you’ve been thinking of so intently seeming to appear in front of you. Some of them are good at finding the pair for a shoe, or the tie for a jacket. They polish the pearls, push earring pairs together, tighten screws and stitches, tugging sequins tighter and hems neater.

But they’re still fairies. They are possessive of the things they own, and if you work in the shop long enough, you count as just another piece of the hoard. When you clock out they stick with you, drag at the echoes of your steps like they’re displeased you’ve left at all, never mind without taking them with you.

The lingering, unfortunately, is harder to protect against, but there’s little need. Their power lies in patterns and sashes, not bad luck or spring flowers or ancient forests. Besides, you’ll be back soon enough.

Now we’re moving. I don’t know what will happen to them when we’re gone. Maybe it’s the costumes they’re attached to, and they’re settling in among the rafters we can’t reach in the new building. Maybe it’s us, after all these years. Or maybe it’s the warehouse that holds them, and they’ll be waiting for their next tenant as eagerly as fairies ever do anything. But all these stories, these fragments of history gathered in one place and itching to be brought to life, can’t be left alone for long. If we lose these fairies, more will find us. New rules. Different protections. We collect, they come.

There are fairies in the costume shop, that much I know: in the hats, tucked between dresses or spools of thread, in the toes of boots or the gauze of skirts. They watch, and they work, and they make sure you are never, ever alone.

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An avid lover of fairy tales, mythology, and anything that explores the fantastic, S. E. Roberts (she/they) is a queer writer who is most interested in work that brings the inexplicable into contact with the human experience. Currently, she is vibing in central Jersey, where she works as a part-time tutor, part-time parkour coach, and full-time cat wrangler.