Chapter 4: Shopping Expedition

Our favorite costume shop occupied an old brick building tucked on a side street and bore no resemblance to the flimsy pop-up Halloween stores that sprouted in vacant storefronts every October. This was a professional theatrical costume house, the kind that outfitted entire stage productions with authentic period garments, military regalia, elaborate gowns, masks, wigs, and every conceivable accessory an actor might need.

Halloween merely happened to be their busiest season.

The instant we crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted. Racks of costumes stretched into the cavernous space like rows of forgotten eras. Mannequins posed in miniature scenes: one in a sweeping Victorian mourning dress, another in a Napoleonic officer’s coat, a third in a feathered Renaissance doublet. Shelves displayed crowns, capes, cloaks, masks, wings, horns, gloves, boots, and enough paste jewelry to outfit a minor monarchy.

Sophia’s face brightened the moment she saw the inventory.

“Oh, this was an excellent idea.”

We spent nearly two hours trying things on. Sophia emerged first wearing a 1920s flapper dress: black fringe that swayed with every step showing off her dancer’s legs, a rhinestone headband with a single ostrich plume, and elbow-length gloves. She studied her reflection.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I look like I’m about to hawk bathtub gin on the Lower East Side.”

Next came matching Renaissance ensembles: heavy brocade doublets for her and a velvet gown with slashed sleeves for me. We both rejected them after one glance in the mirror.

“We look like we’ve been kidnapped by a historical reenactment society,” Sophia declared.

A pirate outfit followed—billowing shirt, leather vest, tricorn hat, and a plastic cutlass. Too theatrical. A pair of Victorian walking dresses came next: high collars, corseted waists, and yards of heavy fabric. Too restrictive. Glamorous 1940s movie-star gowns appeared after that: bias-cut satin with sweeping trains and glittering rhinestone straps. Too obvious.