Arlecchino watches you spin around, the fabrics of your skirt twirling as you proudly show it off to her. She hums in appreciation, pen set down at her desk and her paperwork long forgotten in favour of watching you show off all the dresses her money had bought for you.

“It’s nice,” she states, tapping her nails on the wood to no certain rhythm. The stack of clothing you’ve brought piles high on the back of the chair reserved for you.