Vampire Residence

XXXI

The weeks passed rather quickly, punctuated by regular visits from the customer. Sybil could never quite remember her name. She was far too focused on the making of the dress itself- a task that proved far more demanding than any dress she'd made before, though it certainly wasn't without its perks.

Sybil sipped from her teacup, staring at the pattern laid out on her worktable, which was already well over half-finished.

It was nearly past midnight, the two women were alone in the shop, and they were both exhausted. Sybil sat hunched over the table, shifting to work on a tiny piece of lace trim around the base of the dress. The customer was sitting to her left, watching her intently.

Sybil was used to her watching, but it still made her nervous. She could feel the young woman's eyes on her, observing her every movement.

There was always something about her nearly unblinking stare... something intense, but difficult to interpret. Sometimes it made Sybil feel like she was being examined, picked apart... but other times the look held a strange sort of affection she couldn't quite place. A strange fondness, mixed in with a hint of what could've been appreciation.

"So..." Sybil muttered, focusing her eyes on the needle in her hand. "You're getting this for your... wife, correct?"

Daciana didn't respond at first, watching her work. After she had passed the needle through the fabric a few times, the woman leaned forward across the table, her elbow hitting the sugar bowl and almost sending it flying over the edge.

Sybil grabbed it at the last second, just managing to keep the bowl from spilling everywhere.

"Ah- be careful-" she muttered, but when she glanced up at the woman... they were surprisingly close now, mere inches apart.

Sybil nearly dropped the sugar bowl when she spoke suddenly.

"Your stitches are remarkably small."

Sybil shifted uncomfortably as she looked down at the lace in her hands, feeling the customer's eyes on her again. "Ah... yes, I suppose they are. I always try to keep my stitches consistent for this part, even though it's not noticeable...."

The woman was still sitting close, her face barely a foot from Sybil's.

"Yet you went to all the effort of consistency. Why is that?"

Sybil leaned back in her chair, folding up the piece of lace and setting it on the table.

"I suppose... I just take pride in my work, that's all." She let out a nervous huff, trying to collect herself.

The woman's eyes were still fixed on her as she leaned back into her seat, studying her. Sybil knew the woman was doing this on purpose, she'd been doing it consistently for days.

Sybil shifted again in her chair, pulling at the lacy cuffs of her sleeves. "You... you have an extremely specific sense of style, you know."

It was supposed to be a comment about the dress, but Sybil's voice came out more flustered than she intended.

The woman chuckled, sitting back a little in her chair. "Indeed. And you find it unusual."

Sybil glanced over at the young lady, a hint of a flush appearing on her cheeks. "Well- I mean, it's rather... old-fashioned, isn't it? And I can't even place your accent, where are you from?"

Daciana paused for a few seconds as if choosing her words carefully.

"...it's not important. What matters is that my family is very... traditional. We keep to the... old styles and customs when most have abandoned them."

"And you've never thought of updating?" Sybil asked, still fiddling with her sleeve. "I know several of the high society ladies would be aghast to see you in that... frilly collar thing."

"Frilly collar thing?"

Sybil nodded, still looking at the woman's chest and neck, where a high collar of lace rested around her shoulders.

"Yes, that. It goes all the way up to your chin. It looks rather claustrophobic."

"You are claustri... chlaushtronphobec."

"...that's not a real word."

Sybil raised an eyebrow, taking a sip from her cup of tea, which was now mostly made up of the cheap gin she'd been adding all evening.

"I am saying the same word that you are saying."

"...you're saying it wrong, that's the problem." Sybil set down her teacup, sitting back up in her chair again.

"You know that you can't just string together a bunch of syllables and call it a word, right?"

"Of course you can. Your English language does it every day." The woman paused, now mirroring her actions in her chair.

"That's..." Sybil paused for a moment, her mouth opening, then shutting again as she tried to think of a response. "...That's a very good point."

She wasn't quite sure what it was... perhaps it was how the woman's arguments sounded perfectly logical, even though they were a little absurd as if she had countless years of knowledge all crammed into her mind. Or perhaps it was something about the way she spoke, the strange accent and pronunciation of the words, like they had extra weight to them...

...or perhaps it was just the gin that was making this whole conversation more ridiculous than it needed to be- her near-constant intake of alcohol mixed with the nonsensical conversation during their meetings that kept her from noticing that Daciana had never once taken a single drink of her own tea.