Chéri had met a few people who could handle french in Whitby, but none had come across as skilfull at it as Mehmet. The others used the language, as a tool, while the gardener seemed to handle it more like a limb, better than Chéri themselves, perhaps, who too had learnt French. Of course, over ten years of practice made them proficient, but they still recognised a form of uncertainty. Whatever was happening there, it wasn’t uncertainty.

“That is the thing though: I want to try to have a dress that lives on a dress, keep it alive through it,” the idea was bizzarre, Chéri knew, but they figured that just shoving it into the gardner’s face was the bast chance they had at getting what they wanted.

Chéri nodded “But that is a different thing,” they explained. Nothing had the delicacy of real plants and Chéri had a creativity for clothes that almost touched inventiveness. They were directing their energy there, now that dance had abandoned them.