into the opera house before following. The upper levels of the theater looked like a massive field of poppies.
“Who wrote the letter?” Serafina asked.
“I did,” Enza said shyly.
“I passed it around the office.”
Laura looked at Enza and smiled. Good sign.
“We got a kick out of it. No one ever applied for a job here using listening to Caruso records as a skill.”
“I hope I didn’t do anything wrong,” Enza said.
“Your sewing samples saved you.” Serafina smiled, ushering the girls into a lift to the basement. “I don’t usually appreciate humor, intended or not, in query letters.”
The costume shop in the basement of the Met was a cavernous space that extended the full length of the building. From cutting tables, to a series of fitting rooms, through a hall of mirrors where the actor could see himself from every angle, past the machines, and through to finishing, where the costumes were steamed, pressed, and hung, it was a wonderland unlike anything either of the girls had ever seen. All weaves and textures of fabric—bolts of cream-colored duchesse satin, wheels of jewel-toned cotton, soft sheets of silver faille and shards of powder blue organza—lay neatly on worktables, stood upright in bolts, or were bundled in bins or jigsawed on the pattern table, waiting to be sewn.
Dress mannequins were staggered around the room, bearing garments in various states of construction. On the walls, a peek into the gallant characters of pending productions—watercolor sketches of Tristan, Leonora, Mandrake, and Romeo—hung like saints in the portrait gallery of the Vatican.
Twenty sleek, top-of-the-line black-lacquered Singer sewing machines outfitted with bright work lamps and attended by short-backed padded stools were lined up like tanks on the cusp of battle on the far side of the room. A three-way mirror and a circular platform for fittings were set off to the side with a rod and privacy curtain. Three long worktables, enough to accommodate fifty seamstresses, split the center of the room, with walking aisles in between.
A worker pressed muslin on the ironing board; another, at a sewing machine, did not lift her head from her task; still others, in the next room, operated the wringer washing machines, hanging voluminous petticoats on drying racks.
Laura and Enza took in all of it and fell instantly, immediately, and irrevocably in love. They wanted to work here more than they wished to live.
“You, over here.” Serafina pointed to Enza. “And you”—she pointed to Laura—“there.”
Serafina handed them each a square of fabric and a bin of crystals. She placed thread, scissors, and needles before them. She opened a sketchbook to a page featuring a copy of a harlequin beading design made famous by Vionnet.
“Reproduce the fan design,” Serafina directed. “Show me what you can do.”
The girls measured the triangles across the fabric, marking them with chalk. Laura picked up a needle and threaded it. Enza fished through the bin to find the right beads. She collected them and brought them to Laura, who handed her the needle, then threaded a second one for herself. Without a word between them, they made fast work of attaching the crystals, quickly and with dexterity.
“I assume you can fine-embroider from your samples,” Serafina said.
“We can do anything. By hand, by machine,” Laura assured her.
“Can you make patterns from a beading design on a sketch?”
“I can do that, Miss Ramunni,” Enza assured her. “I can take any sketch from a designer and break it down for production.”
“I know my way around beads,” Laura volunteered.
“And I’m an excellent fitter,” Enza said.
“You know the opera is more than Signor Caruso. But he is the king around here. We put on the operas he wants to sing, and we cast the sopranos of his choosing. He’s in London until next month, at Covent Garden with Antonio Scotti.”
“The baritone,” Enza remembered. “He appeared with Caruso in Tosca in 1903 here at the Met.”
“You do know your opera.”
“She listened to Puccini through a dumbwaiter,” Laura volunteered. “We were working scullery at a fancy party, and he was there.”
“I wasn’t aware Signor Puccini was renting himself out for parties.”
“Oh, he wasn’t. It was in his honor,” Enza said. “He played several arias from Tosca.”
“Your passion and curiosity will hold you in good stead around here,” Serafina said to Enza. She turned to Laura. “And how about you?”
“I’m a Gerry flapper,” Laura said. “You know, the Irish and all.”
“Geraldine Farrar is our best soprano. But know your place here. You are on the costume crew. You are not fans. No ogling, no joking, no