“Most of them.” Simone studied her face. The tears were still there, but something else had begun to replace the helplessness. Amara reached for a paper towel and drew a rough curve on it with the tip of her red-stained finger. She made five small marks around the curve, then another seven. “I can’t get all the wine out before morning,” she said. “Maybe I can make it look like it was always supposed to be there.”
Simone thought of the clock, the bus ride home, the old sewing machine that sometimes refused to catch its lower thread. She thought of her own shift, which was not yet over, and the hours remaining before the morning showcase. “You understand this will be difficult,” she said. Amara nodded. “And it might not work.” Another nod. Simone took the stained paper towel and looked at her daughter's sketch. “Then let's find out.”
They did not slip out of the hotel unnoticed. Near the service corridor, Josephine Reed saw them carrying the gown in a garment bag. The retired costume designer had come to the gala as an invited volunteer, and she recognized the cream fabric at once. When Simone explained what had happened, Josephine's expression became still. She had spent forty years backstage and knew the difference between a spilled drink and a deliberate attempt to destroy a costume. She listened to Amara's idea without interrupting. Then she asked to see the sketch.
Amara showed her the stained paper towel. Josephine studied the branching marks, then the gown itself. “You cannot simply sew flowers over wet satin,” she warned. “We have to blot the wine, let the fabric dry, and test how the color behaves. Then we’ll need to support the stained sections and keep the weight balanced. Otherwise the seams may pucker or the skirt may twist when you walk.” She hesitated, measuring the girl in front of her. “But I think you have seen a design in the accident. That's a very different thing from hiding it.”
Josephine had access to a small costume workshop at the neighborhood arts center, ten minutes away. It contained a sturdy machine, a cutting table, a steam iron, and enough donated materials to make costumes for a school play. She offered the space, not a guarantee. Simone called her supervisor and explained the situation; the supervisor arranged for someone to finish her shift. Amara carried the dress to the car herself. It was still heavy with dampness, and she held it away from the seats as though the damage might spread to every other part of her life.
At the workshop, they laid the gown on a long table beneath four bright lamps. Amara photographed it from the front, side, and back before touching anything. Josephine insisted. “You need to remember what it looked like before you change it,” she said. Amara thought this was advice about design, but it also meant there would be a record of what Celeste had done. Josephine tested a hidden seam with a white cloth to see whether the remaining wine would transfer. They carefully lifted the wet lining away from the worst section, blotted the fabric from both sides, and let cool air circulate around the gown