By April I had learned how long a workroom could remain busy without earning enough. There were garments everywhere, but some belonged to customers still waiting for estimates, and some had been returned for corrections I should have caught. I carried a small list to Celia's door because I no longer trusted myself to turn a difficult conversation into a tidy explanation.
She opened the door and looked at the list. "If that's work, I'm not taking it."
"It isn't an order." I kept my hands down. "I'd like ten minutes. If you don't want to give me that, I'll go."
She let me in, though she did not offer to take my coat. We sat with a little table between us. I had rehearsed a sentence about pressure and responsibility. Looking at her, I understood it would make her listen to my reasons before I acknowledged what I had done. I folded the list once more.
"I accused you of taking money," I said. "I did it in front of Hugh. You'd bought something I'd authorized, and I treated my incomplete book as though it knew more than you did. Then I called it arithmetic so I wouldn't have to apologize."
Celia rested her hands on the table. "Yes."
"I'm sorry for that. And for putting up the cash rule without asking you."
She asked whether I had come because I needed help. I said yes. There was no useful dignity in denying it. I told her about the missed delivery and the credit, without offering them as punishment enough for my behavior. She listened, then said she would consider limited paid shifts, not a return to whatever hours the work happened to demand.
"And the money stays where both of us can understand it," she said. "A ledger in the room. Purchases entered when they're made. If you authorize something by telephone, we write that down too."
I asked about an emergency when neither of us could reach the other. We agreed on a modest purchasing limit for necessary supplies, with receipts left visibly beside the book. Anything beyond that waited for agreement. At first the rules felt like concessions extracted from me. Then I noticed they also said what Celia would do. They protected the work rather than one person from the other.
She would not promise all her former hours. She had arranged other obligations and was not dropping them because I had finally understood a sentence. We chose two shifts and a small order to test. I wrote down the pay, the tasks, and the finish date. She read the paper before agreeing.
On her first morning back, I placed a new ledger on the central table. I had copied the opening balance and attached the receipts supporting it. Celia checked those figures while I made tea. When she found a supply purchase entered under the wrong date, she called me over instead of silently correcting it.
My chest tightened before I reached the table. Then she showed me the receipt, and we changed the date together. Nothing worse happened. She did not turn my mistake into a verdict on my character. I stood there a moment longer than necessary, learning what it felt like to be corrected without being cornered.
The test order was ordinary: worn pockets, hems, and a jacket needing its lining secured. We divided it by skill and time rather than my habit of keeping the complicated work until last. When a pocket needed more fabric than the estimate allowed, Celia asked whether to call the customer. I asked what she recommended. We made the call together.
Hugh arrived as we were checking the finished pieces. I asked whether he had time to help move the rail, and told him how long I thought it would take. He said yes, after looking at his watch. Later, walking home, he remarked that I had finally asked a question that could have been answered no.
Celia took her key back at the end of the trial week, but she kept the written terms in her bag. I did not ask whether she forgave me. We had another agreed shift on Monday, and I had paid her for the one just finished. For the moment, those were promises small enough to keep.