Page 14 of Carnival’s Playground

We work fast, dragging racks out into the gray morning light, hanging capes and dresses and skeleton suits over every available line and hook we can find. The sun's fighting through the clouds left over from last night's storm, weak but real, and I'm grateful for every degree of warmth it offers.

I'm halfway through untangling a knot of fishnet stockings from a witch's hat when I hear boots crunching gravel behind me.

"You look like you're losing a fight with Halloween," Carnival observes, tool bag slung over one shoulder, grease already smudged across his forearm from the generator.

"I am losing a fight with Halloween." I toss the tangled mess at his feet, more out of spite than necessity. "The costumes got soaked. Half of them are trash. The other half need Millie's hands, which means they need time we don't have."

"Sounds like a you problem," he says, crouching down anyway, picking through the pile like he's actually helping and not just proving a point.

"It's an everybody problem." I snatch a torn cape out from under his hands before he can make it worse. "You want guests walking through a haunted circus with performers in ripped jackets held together with safety pins? That's not spooky, that's sad."

"Sad's still a mood." He grins, easy and infuriating, and I hate how much I like it when he does that. "Spooky sad. New attraction. Charge extra."

"You're not funny."

"I'm a little funny." He stands, brushing dirt off his knees, gesturing toward the generator shed behind him. "North generator's fixed, by the way. In case you were wondering how my morning went."

"I wasn't wondering." I absolutely was wondering, but admitting that feels like handing him ammunition he doesn't need.

"Sure you weren't." He picks up a soggy jester costume, examining the bells still sewn along the collar. "This one's not too bad. Just wet."

"Everything's just wet, Carnival, that's the problem." I take it from him, hanging it beside the others. "Millie can maybe salvage half of what's here if she works round the clock, but we're still short costumes for the extended run. We didn't budget for two more weeks of wear and tear."

"So we improvise," he says, like improvising is easy, like it's not the exact thing that keeps this whole operation from falling apart on any given night.

"Improvise how? We don't exactly have a costume shop hiding behind the funnel cake stand."

"No." He looks around the yard, taking in the scattered racks, the fluttering fabric, the general chaos of our morning. "But you've got fabric scraps, and you've got Millie, and you've got a whole lot of Halloween spirit lying around unused."

"Unused Halloween spirit doesn't sew hems." But something about the way he says it snags in my brain anyway, an idea forming slow and stubborn.

"What if we don't fix every costume," I say, more to myself than him, "what if we get creative with what's ruined. Torn witch dresses become extra rag ghouls for the haunt walk. Ripped jackets get distressed on purpose, sold as new horror pieces instead of accidents."

"There she is," Carnival's grin widens, and something in my chest does an unwelcome little flip. "Knew you had it in you."

"Had what in me?" I ask.

"Ideas that don't involve yelling at me first," he replies, picking up another ruined costume, holding it up for inspection. "This one's beyond saving, but it's got good bones for something scarier."

"Careful," I tell him, taking it from him, mind already spinning with possibilities. "Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you're useful for more than fixing generators."

"I'm useful for plenty." He says it low, almost teasing, and I refuse to acknowledge the way my pulse ticks up at the tone of it.

We spend the next hour sorting costumes into three piles, salvageable, repurpose for scares, and true trash bound for the burn barrel. Millie joins in once she sees where I'm headed with it, practically giddy at the idea of turning disaster into inspiration.

"This is genius," Millie declares, holding up a torn wedding dress that's about to become the centerpiece of a new ghost bride display. "Why didn't we think of this before the storm?"

"Because before the storm we had costumes that weren't ruined," I point out, though I can't help smiling at her enthusiasm.

Carnival's still there, helping haul racks, sorting fabric scraps, more patient about the whole thing than I expected from a man who rode in on a motorcycle looking like trouble wrapped in leather.

"You didn't have to stick around for this," I tell him once Millie disappears inside with an armful of ruined lace.

"Generator's fixed. Figured I'd make myself useful somewhere else," he shrugs, tossing a scrap of fabric into the correct pile without me even asking. "Besides, watching you problem solve is entertaining."

"Entertaining how?" I ask.

"You get this look," he gestures vaguely at my face, like he's trying to sketch it in the air. "Like you're daring the whole world to tell you no."