The owl became a tiny dot, its wing span having grown smaller and smaller against the navy, starless city sky. Violet stood still, pristine as a rarely used marble kitchen in her robe and dressing gown. The glass on the sill was tall and narrow, meant for orange juice in the mornings. Instead it held something red, a bit thick, and Violet Islington’s mornings were ushered in by the street lamps. She could a see a few of them through the rows of back gardens, onto the next street, and the next. Like the owl, they became tiny.

A pale hand brought the glass to a similarly pale mouth. Violet sipped, it was almost a non-sip, and turned away from the window.

There was time for idler moments in the ‘mornings.’ But now the last owl was sent, one of several— strict orders for the office, reminders of visits, confirmations for meetings, and the all-important order form to which she was bound, forever— and Violet had a busy, moonlit day ahead of her.

She carried the glass to her vanity, sat down to add a touch of color to her face. The nourishment, fresh from a pitcher in her fridge, only did half the work. The other half required a skillful hand, which Violet had adapted over the years of missing a wand.

She would not wear a full mask. She was not ashamed by her obvious deviations from humans. But a touch of color was a nice thing, and Violet should hardly give it up. To wallow in her affliction would be the true defeat, and she was a near century past wallowing. With her face brightened by blush, lashes and brows defined, gently, she stood and seemed to float, almost as if she weren’t beholden to gravity, to the nursery-sized closet that housed her clothing.

Today’s selection came in shades of black, different to a careful eye. But their differences complimented each other, textures worked together, creating a puritanical uniform that was anything but in its minute, lavish detail and sob-worthy price tag. Violet had not paid for garments in a long time, having been inundated with samples from design houses. She had hardly even made a dent in the clothing allowance Runwitch provided on top of her salary. But Violet always wore the clothes, and not the other way around.

Looking every bit herself, she swept out of the house fifteen minutes later, and straight into the car of a privately hired driver, formerly employed by the Ministry of Magic. Runwitch paid him much better than the government could hope to, and it was a small thing, for their editor to be elegantly delivered to the entrance of Diagon Alley, rather than Floo’d or Portkeyed. Violet did not mind either form of transportation, being beyond accustomed to headaches at this point in her long life, but there was work to be done in the drive over, and if she could no longer apparate, she would at least enjoy London before breathing fire into the magazine.

Besides, she had plenty of things to get done before she made an appearance, before the witches and wizards in her employ cowered in their London-rent-priced shoes and had break downs into bowls of food whose taste was an old but vivid memory.

Another fifteen minutes, and Violet nodded at her driver as he ushered her out of the car and drove away, weaving through traffic in that slightly magical manner that muggles did not notice. She sailed through the Leaky Cauldron and into the back alley, following a wizard into cobbled street. At this hour, there were always wizards coming and going. Violet rarely had trouble finding a way in when she wanted to use this entrance.

At night, Diagon Alley was vibrant. A yellow glow overtook the shop fronts. Even those that were closed, or near closing, put on a handsome face. The vampiress earned looks as she walked, quick and fluid strides that nevertheless seemed wholly unfrazzled. But it was an unsettling calm for some, and Violet had no trouble finding a clear path.

It had been on her schedule, a casual trip to Malkin’s at an hour when many such businesses were winding down.

She stepped into the shop, ignoring a departing customer, who no doubt stared.

“Coralie.” A hint of a smile, cheek bones borne in a way that matched her teeth, half-hidden: something just there, under the surface. “Lovely night.” She had shorn her coat, almost by magic, and now held it out. She looked around, a panorama captured from shallow pools that saw deeply.

“You’ve been busy. Show me."

Cora was in a fantastically good mood.  She had been for the past month or so, really.  Her great grandmother was none the wiser and looking into opening another location in Milan, so Cora was even left with more responsibilities in the store while she worked on that. 

It also allowed her to set more of her own schedule and that made it easier for her to spend some time working on the cloaks that she was head over heels for.  She’d just decided to stick with one thing to start, to really make a name for herself, and once she got good enough and developed a reputation she had this idea that she’d spring into other things.  For now, she’d just design her own clothing – none of that for sale,  like the polka dot dress she was wearing today.  It was one of a kind. 

She really felt like she was coming into her own with some things and her designs, on the whole, were getting much more beautiful.  Her great grandmother even agreed, so much so that she was letting her put some of them on the floor in a display. 

So, at the end of the day, Cora was just setting it up.  Business was slowing, as they’d be closing soon, and when someone did come in, she could abandon the mannaquins for a little while and then attend to them later.  She had just finished the arrangements for the first two when she heard the door and immediately looked up, blonde hair swishing around her head.  Very important customer!

Dropping the sleeve of the first cloak, Cora immediately bustled over – her heels clicking quickly on the floor and she enthusiastically took the coat.  “Welcome, Ms Islington,” she smiled, though not too much… she felt like she had to be a little more restrained.  When an important customer came in… when they liked something… well, Cora felt her heart thudding a little bit in her chest. 

She wanted to please, of course, and with a customer who could legitimately make or break a career like Cora’s… it was important.  So, she folded the robe very neatly over her arm and nodded at Violet’s command. 

“I was actually just putting up a display of new pieces, you’d be the first to see them,” she informed the imposing, pale woman.  Cora, though not dark skinned in the least looked positively tan next to her, and politely motioned her to follow toward the display.

---

Cloak 1 Cloak 2 Cloak 3 Cloak 4

Violet was accustomed to people taking her coat, briefcase, or whatever she might have handed them— to the point that she appeared to treat her Runwitch assistants as coat hangers with receptive hands. But the movements were fluid and stately, rather than brash or barbaric, and the expectation was one that came with her position. Violet had earned her position. Designers, seamstresses, tailors, and countless industry creatives taking on that role automatically, outside of the offices over which she lorded, was also expected. One could even surmise that it was a strange sign of respect from the editrix, that she was not simply ignoring the other’s presence. It was much better to be the person collecting her cold weather garments than the person being dismissed from her office or overlooked in her Diagon Alley rounds.

And thus she had officiated her greeting to Cora. She was a lovely girl, really, one with lots of potential, and a refreshingly soft edge for a fashion type.

It was endearing, to the vampire.

“Wonderful. I like to avoid queues.” The humor was there in her voice, even if it was not as evident on her face. A compliment, too, to a sharp ear. While as accustomed to being the first to see someone’s work as she was to human coat hangers, even for Violet, it was not a privilege that simply wore off with time.

She looked over the first garment, her face blank as she took it in, and took her time. The cuts were excellent, precisely done, but gave an overall feel of edginess, which was not always easy to achieve. It was a very careful balance. She ran her fingers over the second garment, whose asymmetrical draping was similarly splendid. It was a dark piece, something Violet could see in editorial as easily as she could see it on a vampish witch stomping down the cobbles of Diagon Alley. The next pair of cloaks had militaristic cut and detail, and brought out all of the coolness and function of utilitarianism without constricting the wearer. Violet could tell simply by looking; it was her job. Overall, it was a cohesive but progressive collection, it told a story, she could envision the witch wore such pieces. That was the hallmark of good design.

“We have a story coming up,” she said, her eyes still on the final piece. “These would be perfect. You’ll let us photograph them?” It was only halfway between a statement and a question. A mere syllable from being a command, though elegantly voiced. Her eyes shot from the garment to the young Miss Malkin. There the question was more obvious, but the expected answer, too, seemed to be in her strangely calm gaze. “You’ve always been a good seamstress, but you’ve achieved something new here. Surely you plan to broaden your collection?” Perhaps show at the next wizarding fashion week.

It was stress inducing to show her work to anyone – hell, she’d practically broken out into hives when she had her great grandmother appraise her work.  But, having Violet Islington looking at her robes was another level entirely.  She could feel her stomach twisting itself into knots and she did her best to be careful with the cloak she had been handed. 

It wasn’t as though Violet were an ordinary customer.  Gramma would be positively green with envy – and perhaps a little more than mortified that she wasn’t there to receive her.  Every time Ms. Islington came there was the potential to have a soar in business or a drastic plummet.  So, it was up to Cora to make a good impression, and now, showing her the garments she’d only just gotten permission to put them on the floor, Cora felt a ton of anxiety. 

There was the potential for this to be a death knell for her career, and the way Violet looked so dispassionately at everything, well, it took everything in Cora’s power not to just slink away forever after hanging the dreadfully expensive cloak on a decorative rack to preserve its shape and not let it touch anything else.  It felt rather important that she do that.  Perhaps out of sheer desire to make sure Violet was pleased, Cora returned to where she was standing (it appeared neither she, nor her eyes had moved since she left) and Cora tried not to fidget too much. 

She imagined if she looked overly nervous that would rub off on her collection, and she had to look proud of her work.  Well, she really was proud of it – the robes were the pride of her collection and she’d worked for at least a week (of after work and before work tuning) to get each done. 

Her mouth went dry when Violet finally opened hers though.  Did she really hear that right?  She thought she must not have.  Reaching up, she rubbed on her ear, just for good measure, and it appeared she had not momentarily lost her hearing or forgotten she was breathing or something.  “Of course!” she practically squeaked, “I mean, I would be honored,” she babbled a little and tried to clear her throat, “if you wanted to photograph them, I mean.” 

That was not the most glorious or graceful way to say absolutely.  But, at least she responded when she could have just stood there and stammered.  That was definitely a step up.  And then a compliment?  Cora could have died.  She might have, actually, for a brief second when her heart stopped and her mind went blank.

“I have a few more pieces,” she blurted out, “but I’m still reworking them a bit.  But, these are the only ones done so far.”  She shifted her eyes from side to side, “Are you looking for any more editorial pieces – or something personal?”

Violet appeared to overlook signs of nervousness in Coralie. She was highly accustomed to spotting signs of the internal struggle not to breathe too obviously or wear an excess panic on one’s face. Somehow, the young woman wore it well. For now. If it were one of Violet's assistants, it would be debatable, depending on the person and how long they had worked for her. But then half of them were squeamish or perpetually panicked inwardly to some extent. Even Violet could not wholly blame them. (Though she did, and frequently, for patience was a precious thing for an editor). Many of them didn’t get over it before they were dismissed or demoted, became someone else’s to look after.

But Coralie also appeared to recover just fine from whatever it was that she had been thinking while Violet studied her work. Good. The editrix hadn’t time to deal with a breakdown before quilling the girl into the calendar— or, more aptly, having an assistant do it when she returned to helm that was her office.

There were pillars, fixtures, in her industry. Most of the industry giants were decades old fixtures, in fact. But the other side of the coin was cutting edge, progressive, evolved before its time. It was what shocked and awed the masses two seasons before they put on their backs. “Fresh blood is what keeps Runwitch moving forward.”

In more ways than one.

“I’ll have a stylist reach out and coordinate with you and a photographer. I have someone in mind. Her styling would suit your tailoring.” A perfect marriage, in fashion terms. “There should be an interview of course, for your debut. You have no agent or public relations firm?” She asked, though she thought she knew the answer.

Violet continued to stare, though she was disappointed girl's revelation. More to come was a good sign. She didn’t want a potential fashion darling stalling (writer’s block for the sewing type) before she finished her first solid collection. “Good. Please keep me updated.”

And then: “You know, people don’t take you for someone with such a dark edge.” The vampire smiled. It was small, lips calmly closed, but unmistakeable now. Unnerving in the way that Violet’s smiles could be, that eerie kind of stillness. As much as she found Coralie Malkin strangely charming, she liked a bit of shadow under a bubbly face. As long as Coralie kept both, and was not foolish with either, she would do well for herself.

“I will take this.” Her tone was firm, no-nonsense as she reached out to touch the sash of the wrapped piece. “I’ll buy it now, but we can use it for the shoot. Or if you are up for producing several…” She trailed off, leaving it up to the seamstress. There were benefits to producing more than the sample beforehand, but a one of a kind piece was covetous. Either way, Coralie won. And, Violet, too, would find herself a victory.

When Ms. Islington said it took fresh blood, a shiver ran down Cora’s spine.  She didn’t know how to take that.  She supposed the woman who said it didn’t really want her to know how to take it.  Violet Islington had a reputation for keeping people on their toes. 

Cora had to be prepared for that, particularly if she wanted to do business with her.  It was a slippery slope to go down, and a sort of terrifying one.  It was easy to be Coralie Malkin, shop girl.  She could do that without a fuss and she could seamstress anything that came in front of her.  No one paid her much mind, or thought of her too much in an either positive or negative way, which ultimately left her without much conflict in her life, but also without much satisfaction either.

Going into another place with her career, she sort of felt like it was a big choice to make all at once, but at the same time, she had to do it.  It was her life, she needed to take charge of it – she couldn’t expect to just… make other people’s clothes and alter them for the rest of her life, could she?  Cora put on her brave face and nodded at all of her commentary, “Of course,” she threw in, trying to sound like she knew what she was talking about.

Though, to her final question, Cora shook her head.  “Not… quite,” she eased, though she could feel her throat closing up a little.  Unless her great grandmother counted, and somehow, Cora doubted that the esteemed Madame Malkin, for all of her titles, could be considered a PR Firm or Agent.  Then there was mention of an interview and Cora blinked, "Oh, um - I mean, if you think that's best," she deferred even if she felt like she would die.  This was escalating quite quickly: she hadn't even anticipated the woman coming into the store, let alone liking her work, and then suggesting a spread - her head was spinning!

As she tried to digest everything, what did she hear?  Clearly, very little, as judging by Violet’s look toward her and the words she was saying: no one would expect that of her.  She blinked rapidly and licked her lips, “I – um… I try to be a surprise, I guess,” she smiled, albeit awkwardly. 

Interacting with Violet Inslington was like a dance – and Cora was not graceful.  She just bumbled around and hoped things worked out, which seemed to be the case at this point.  She looked to the garment Violet was touching and nodded, “I have enough of the fabric for a couple more,” she looked at the line, “of each, actually,” she added, not wanting to disappoint. 

“Since the patterning is done, I should be able to produce them quickly,” she wanted to make sure she knew and started to carefully remove the wrapped cloak from the mannequin she had just painstakingly put it onto.  “As well as the other pieces.  Do you have any specific requests for a shoot?” she knew to ask that, at least, to give herself a little direction, “dresses? Separates? More robes?” She really was an outerwear sort of girl, but she made her own dresses and things, she could manage it if it was asked of her.  She folded the robe carefully over her arm and headed toward the register, "Would you like it in a garment bag?" she asked moving behind the counter in a much more comfortable space for her: behind the counter, and the scenes. 

“It’s quite alright, Cora.” There were those who did well under manufacture, geniuses who could not function without someone to pour their coffee, quiz them on interview answers, and feed their pets. Then there were the earnest ones, half of whom were worn out or jaded after their first fashion week. Violet rather hoped Coralie would be in the other half, the half who persisted… and then small percentage of that crowd who found lasting success. It was a fickle business, and also one that hardly seemed to change at all in some respects. “You have a good head on your shoulders. Stave off the PR reps for as long as you can.”

“But it is a good thing, to get your name out there,” she reiterated, tone placid as ever. Being without representation was one thing. Unanswered interview requests were another. If Coralie was nervous, she was also agreeable. Smart girl.

Violet knew one had to be careful with what one divulged. If the young Miss Malkin proved too green, it was possible they might have to hold back, reign in the spread. Those sorts of things happened all of the time, with fashion changing faster than time ticked. But Violet’s instincts very rarely lead her astray. Fashion might have moved fast, but Violet had all of the time in the world. The vampiress had spent far too many years around people not to pick up on the cues of who held promise and who belonged in the back row at the fashion shows.  “If you have something of substance, you’ll by fine. Your tailoring suggests you have.”

Her response, that she liked to be a surprise, nearly elicited another smile as Violet caught sight of yet more garments in a mirror’s reflection.

She nodded once, brief, calm. Not deadly sharp— her face held enough of that— but it was not the nod of an un-opinionated client. Violet never let the clothes wear her. “Bring whatever you feel represents you.” Since she would be representing herself, it seemed. “Our stylists will work with what you want to show. We may pair pieces with accessories from other lines, or go bare. Perhaps a mix. People want to see the ways in which they can wear things— they’re not all so imaginative. It’s our job to do that for them.” Many readers were monied, but not adventurous. “Other times, it’s nice to have a statement piece that stands alone and speaks for itself.” Her eyes moved to the cloak again, the one she planned to buy.

“Coralie,” she called, calmly again, as the young woman moved off toward the register. She needn’t a beckoning wand. “Tailor it to me now. I’ll wear it out.” Her other cloak, a much-admired thing, would be carried out in a garment bag.

It was weird to talk to Violet.  She was oddly blank for someone who was giving advice.  If Cora were in her place she’d be so enthusiastic, she’d probably scare people away.  Though, she supposed the placid tone would also scare people away.  As if being a vampire wasn’t enough.  Not that Cora would ever say that, oh no!  She didn’t think that was the scariest thing about Violet anyway.  She had a lot of power in the world Cora wanted to be in. 

If Cora messed up, Cora was out, and that idea was horrifying.  She’d be tailoring everyone else’s work for the rest of her life if she didn’t succeed.  That seemed like the worst thing ever.  Since her great grandmother was probably going to live to be a thousand years old, she’d be an employee and Malkin would forever be remembered that way, rather than by her amazing cloaks and pieces.  “Thank you,” Cora made sure to reply readily to the compliment, she assumed Violet did not say people had promise often.

The woman might not actually speak very often, judging by her cool stares and calculated movements.  Cora wondered how many people used that as an inspiration.  It sort of made her think of the way a perfect robe should move – just enough swing without being ridiculous, structured and with purpose.  Maybe she would show something like that.  Oh that was an idea, she tried to avoid bouncing on her toes, instead she rocked back and forth for a moment and breathed. 

Her description of what was going to happen seemed overwhelming but also exciting to Cora.  She wanted to take the leap and go to the next level.  It’d be good for everyone involved, especially if they liked her work.  “I look forward to it,” Cora smiled, really excited for the opportunity but trying to restrain herself.  She didn’t want to seem overwhelming. 

She was excited to get to tailoring her own work though and she shifted the garment over her arm.  “Why don’t we go to the mirrors,” she offered with a smile and motioned to the little fitting area with the three way mirrors and pedestal.  The lighting was better and she’d be able to confirm measurements and then snip and sew readily.  Taking her wand out of her hip pocket, she summoned the materials she’d need and stood by the platform.  “If you’d step up, please,” se smiled and stood a little bit off, the materials floating in the air behind and around her. 

Violet was already gliding toward the pedestal and mirrors, the skirt of her strict dress like a sail on a breezeless day, unshifting. No doubt, the dark swath in Coralie’s arms would add volume— though it was hardly a summery, billowy thing. Sometimes shadows were more powerful.

Violet, who lived in them, should know.

Contrary to popular muggle folklore (which was often contrary in nature), vampires could see their reflections like anyone else. Indeed, three angles of Violet surfaced and reflected off of one another, creating an endless cascade of blonde vampires that had to be as unsettling for potential customers as Cora’s garments were lovely. Under the light, both her diet of blood and near lack of color from it were made plain. She loomed most patiently on the pedestal. Tall is what she looked.

“I hope I’m your last appointment for the evening.” She gave no indication as to whether this was so that they might take their time, or because she knew that Coralie might have a life outside of work hours, like most young adults. Her stillness was a sign of her comfort with needles and measuring tapes. Or perhaps comfort was the wrong word, so human a thing, even when paired with creature. But Violet was hardly a pin cushion or a mannequin. And to be poked when one held blood more precious than others…

Well, she trusted the girl with pins, at least. It was usually the customer’s fault, all the fidgeting. The idea that customers were never wrong as was repulsive as it was tiring. Customers needed to be told how poor their taste was. They needed a guiding hand. They needed to be hexed still and patient and pliable. It was Violet’s job to do so— in a careful, politically mindful tongue. Unlike Coralie, who was on her good side for her talent and willingness to take Violet’s advice, readers were on her good side for their money and devotion, which funded her work and allowed her to support such talent— who might inevitably rub off on them. It was a careful globe.

“The work day is only starting for me. At least this will make for a proper entrance to our editor’s meeting.” Not that her entrances weren’t always imposing. She took her time, taking in the angles without really moving. “I can already hear the droll ideas from our society editor,” she elaborated. Violet was not one for useless chatter, but industry goings-on were always informative. And a warning. “—Thinking twice before they leave her mouth.” She stared at her reflection. "And then doing it anyway.” Even a powerful coat could not stop the professional nepotists. “Ladies who lunch in florals... throwing another party for themselves in a charming, rent-inflated cafe that will close before next June’s issue. This is why we need raw talent. To kill the bad ideas.”

Cora was in awe of the way Violet moved.  It was practically like she didn’t walk at all, just floated through the air, gliding wherever it was she chose to go.  Of course, Cora knew that thought was silly, but it didn’t mean she didn’t have it.  “Oh yes,” Cora made sure to reply, gathering her supplies and placing them on the little stand by the pedestal. 

The vampire looked even statelier standing even taller, like a marble column draped in black fabric.  Being able to dress such a woman and outfit her with her own designs, it seemed like a dream come true in a lot of ways.  It was also inspiring. 

She imagined the sorts of things she could – and would – create as a result.  She saw the outline of a gown and robe she could create…  Shaking her head, Cora refocused and stepped up to help slide the coat onto her.  “After your fitting, and anything else you’d like, I’m probably just going to head back to my flat,” she announced breezily. 

It was true, Cora didn’t do much, except go home and sketch or make something.  Well, unless Thomas was about, but well – he wasn’t around tonight.  In France, tending to the wand shop or whatever else he did during the day.  Mybe she’d send him an owl later… that’d be nice.  She couldn’t help but smile. 

Her eyes – and ears – refocused on Violet, having realized her hands wer emoving pretty much of their own accord, tucking and pinning to fit the robe like it was supposed to.  Thankfully, Violet was as near to a model figure as Cora could have hoped so there wasn’t much to really do to the piece, just put it to a T, like she knew Ms. Islington would want it. 

As her fingers deftly moved over the fabric, she nodded along with Violet’s assessment of her work and quite liked the sentiment.  She couldn’t help but giggle a little bit at her suggestion about the editor, clapping her free hand over her mouth.  “I mean, that’s not funny,” she blushed and hurried her steady hands to tuck and carefully fold in the sumptuous black fabric.  “I don’t mean to sound naïve, if I do,” she started, wanting to engage the vampire in conversation, but not perturb her, “but what sort ideas do you consider bad?”  It was probably important information to know. 

Violet continued to stand still and patient as the young woman slid the coat on. She considered Coralie’s words and thought of her own post-work routine. She could appreciate those who unwound at home, though she hardly knew if this was usual for the young seamstress. Violet herself most often retreated to her townhouse for a glass of blood and some reading or music. The newspapers were always in a pile on the coffee table, though they were hardly elegant. They had been once, the look of them, but knowing what they included made them less so.  She supposed coffee might help, but she did not drink coffee. (Obviously). Newspapers were too stuffed with weary words and nothing at all. But a room empty of them would have been far less elegant. She kept up with the times, and sometimes they surprised her.

Violet always tried to infuse something layered into her own monthly venture. The words had to mean something, whether one was penning a piece on new wardrobe staples, or using the clothes as an excuse to interview women of great influence. However mediocre reporters could be with what they chose to focus upon (now doubt what their readers greedily consumed), she would not trade places with those who reported hard news. It was miserable and thankless.

“Do you have much of a nightlife?” She asked mildly. Ordinarily, she did not care. But it was often good to know what the designers were like as people (though it often did not matter; if someone could sew a brilliant piece, and had the sense to at least show up for appointments, Violet did not usually care what they did in their personal time). But that fresh quality about the girl also made the question more interesting than it usually was. If she would escape the more jaded corners of the industry, there might have been a formula. “I do appreciate solitude after a long work day. People, for all of their frequent dullness, can be overwhelming.”

Dullness could be overwhelming.

But Violet could also be social. It was part of the job requirement. If she didn't like business parties and galas, she wouldn't have lasted. She was no misanthrope, just chose her more personal company and settings carefully.

“Luckily, the interesting ones make up for it.” Violet mightn’t have lasted so long if that weren’t true. If there was nothing tediousness, nothing at all to ground her, she have landed herself in trouble, like some vampires were still wont to do. Years and years of experience and studying humans did not always make her kind wise. Not all vampires could find their niche. Not all of them could deal with the bitterness.

The interesting ones included the young woman, who used her hands as if each finger had its own, autonomous brain. Though she stuck by her position that it was customer who made tailoring a pain, it was nice to have a seamstress who moved reflexively and adjusted to said customer. 

While Violet did not laugh, she could not begrudge the girl her honesty. Or her question. Violet still had some time before she had to be at the office and deal with everyone else’s drabber questions. “Fashion moves in a cycle like anything else.” She pinned Cora with a look in the mirror. "We reinvent the wand. But to be inspired by the past without bringing a vision to the table… To be reductive and have no angle of your own...” She shook her head. “But you also can’t make something new and avant garde without a vision. We cannot let the clothes wear us. Editors who don’t understand that, or who just go through the motions— florals for spring, and that’s that, or pushing the envelope for the sake of it— don’t want their jobs enough.” Which was fine with Violet, who was happy to dismiss them for someone else in the long line of candidates. “Talent or passing knowledge don’t make up for someone who has lost touch with the point of high fashion, which is to inspire everyone else, and themselves. Even if we’re putting a girl in a pretty, classic dress, we have to make the readers envy it— and believe it.” Similarly, if someone wanted to send a girl naked down a runway and call it new, they had better believe it before Violet did.

Cora couldn’t help herself.  She laughed at the suggestion that she could have nightlife.  “Not really,” an honest answer, “I have a… someone I’m seeing, but I think that’s hardly a nightlife, right?” she shrugged and clipped a stray string from taking in a dart. 

“Mostly,” she added, tilting her head to examine the hem to decide whether it was the right length or not, “I spend a lot of time at home drawing and designing.  That’s where I made the cloaks you’ve seen.”  That was true.  Cora was constantly making something.  The dress form in her room was in constant working order.  And, she decided, the hem on the cloak was perfect, it hit the right spot to make the vampire’s legs look about forty feet long, something the miniscule designer could never hope to achieve, and nodded in appreciation. 

“My great grandmother says I’m an introvert,” she shrugged and moved to the sleeves, needing to fix the length on those just a tad.  She tried to avoid touching Violet’s extremely cold hands as she folded the cuff to make the hem marks, “but I don’t know – I think people need to be interesting to go places.  I’m used to the background,” she added. 

Being out of the background and in the lime light was daunting.  It was easy for Cora to stand back and watch things she made move away and have other people showcase them.  She liked that about design.  She didn’t have to be the person in the spotlight. 

It was interesting to hear Violet talk about the industry though.  She’d been around a long time, obviously, and knew whatever there was to know about what that world could be like.  Cora had really only experienced it from the walls of this shop and the mouth of her great grandmother, it would be interesting to have her own experiences around her hopefully blossoming career. 

“You have a way with words,” Cora complimented, understanding what she was saying and quite liking it.  She did know that there were a lot of things that repeated in fashion and cues were taken from everywhere, trends switching and taking turns all over the place, it was a fickle business, but one with a lot of movement and Cora liked that.  Things staying the same for too long were inevitably destined to become boring. 

She switched around to the other sleeve, “It should only take about fifteen more minutes,” Cora assured her, nimbly folding the sleeve.  “It’s like the cloak was practically made for you.”

Violet’s expression seemed to be the embodiment of an mmmm of acknowledgement... or consideration. A someone. She understood, in a way; defining relationships beyond that big, vague term could be tricky and tiresome. And if she did not ordinarily care about others’ personal lives, it was still a good fact to store. Like everything else about the young woman, the way she described her social life seemed to suit her. It was her work that continued to shock the most.

“Having an outlet is important,” she said, agreeably enough, as Cora continued— even if Violet herself would be hard pressed to appear anything but disciplined, poised, seemingly without need of such things. While not an artist herself, she did spend plenty of time pouring over books, newspapers, edits, styling choices, others’ art, both old and new. What a stylist did was not as easy as it looked, and what a vampire did to consume new knowledge… well, she had spent plenty of time without work or worry, and while there were wizards her age and older, their lives were different from the one Violet led. “It might as well be a productive one. Some people waste all of their time. Is this someone you’re seeing an artist?” She asked as her eyes zeroed in on the thread the girl was clipping. She might as well make polite, normal conversation when she wasn’t intimidating underlings. And here, in Malkin’s, it was not tedious.

“You do need to anticipate social cues in this industry, but it’s not a travesty to draw into yourself sometimes.” Creative types could be at extremes, but that was common knowledge. Sometimes the introverted ones were the best functioning… other times, not so much. There were people who were very lucky Violet appreciated their work, because they were hopeless as people otherwise. And that was a feat, given the average human. “You’re in charge of making yourself interesting, Coralie.” Her eyes found the girl’s again. “Background or not.” It was the only way one might be plucked from said background.

She would not be in the background forever, though. Not if she had the promise Violet assumed she had. The vampire did not want to waste her time. But she had plenty of it.

It was not the first time she had been told she was eloquent; what she managed with her pen had produced itself in her voice, after a time, and then there was the novelty of having grown up in an era when one chose one’s words more carefully. Now she was a creature who could not afford to not speak wisely, even when she was speaking scathingly. She could be blunt, but she never said things she did not mean. It was the difference between a stake to the heart and the helm of her own ship.

She said nothing of the compliment.

She was unbothered by Cora’s carefulness not to touch her. One perk of dark magic, of its cold skin, was that it suited well darkly designed pieces. The cloak did look as if it had been made especially for her. The adjustments would complete the effect. “Yes, one should hope it looks that way when we’re done.”

For some reason, Cora found Violet exceedingly interesting. She was pale with piercing blue eyes and that white-blonde hair that she knew was natural but looked as if it weren't. She was just the sort of witch Cora imagined walking in her cloaks and clothes. It was like the antithesis of herself. While she was petite and unassuming, despite her own unique quirks of appearance, Ms. Islington was interesting, unique, and practically perfect next to a dress form.  Plus she had edges. She was sharp and commanding. Cora was none of those things.  She didn't mind, she was herself, but she admired those that had a little bit of bite (an expression not entirely inappropriate to the current customer), so designing for them in mind was just a way to... Connect with that.

It was lucky for Violet that Cora had steady hands, however because she almost slipped with the needle in her hand at the edge of the sleeve.  "I suppose that would be an appropriate description," Cora said thoughtfully, plunging the tiny silver through the fabric. "He is a Wanamaker," she added, "French wands. Vaillancourt, if you've heard of them."  Cora didn't give much thought to talking about it, and Violet seemed like the type of person who could appreciate anything well crafted, fabric or artisan.  Granted, it wasn't as though she could have one of them...

Shutting her mouth to avoid bringing that piece up, Cora continued on her fitting duties, happily switching between hand stitching and using her wand to make things as precise as possible. She'd never  let a customer leave the store looking less than perfect.

The prospect of making herself interesting was a little daunting, if Cora was being honest with herself. She knew that she was fairly predictable, but she supposed that's what made her clothes so interesting. She designed for women like Violet, but draped herself in the most feminine and soft things she could find. It was like another person entirely, and she supposed that was, at the very least, at least a little interesting.

Caught in Violet's gaze, Cora nodded without breaking eye contact. "I think I can manage to be at least a little surprising," she smiled before going back to the sleeve.  She didn't have much else to do. There was a dart that needed to be altered slightly to make the back sit right, but that was it.

Moving behind the witch, Cora used her wand to loosen the belt and apologized quietly before she worked at the placement of the drapes. "It'll only be a couple of more minutes," Cora assured her, flicking her wand to hold the piece in place while she stepped back to see what it looked like from a distance.  It was so much cooler to see her work on somebody else than it was on mannequins. 

Finding the look pleasing, Cora moved back to continue the work.  As careful as she was, of course, something had to go wrong and she yelped as she stabbed her finger with the needle, withdrawing it and the thread from the coat and tried not to swear as she put the tip of her finger into her mouth.  "Sorry," she murmured awkwardly around the bleeding digit and hurried to her case to get a little bandage to put on.  She hadn't made that kind of mistake in a long time!  "Should always use a thimble," she chastised herself as she fumbled with the bandage. 

"Sorry," she apologized again, "I didn't know I would turn into all thumbs," she frowned looking on the floor for the needle for a moment before she just flicked her wand to summon it.  "Got it," she smiled and moved back around, judiciously using her wand instead of her hands just in case.

Violet knew the name, and the wand shop. Well. She had spent a self-elected exile in Paris during the first war, and while the tension had certainly crossed the channel, it had not been quite so tumultuous there. Vampires could not use magic, but it did not stop the thirst in her hands and head from time to time. She might have been born into a new life, but that feeling was not one one forgot. Violet had thus become acquainted with the shop’s owner.

“Not Severin Vaillancourt?” She asked. It had been a while since Violet had spoken with the wizard, but he did not seem Coralie’s… type. Or, rather, generation. Her type… it could work. She could see it, in some… endearingly, quirky, wizarding way. Just younger. “I don’t believe he had any children the last time I saw him. The family has donated to banquets I’ve attended.” It was as good and honest a cover as any Violet might give, and she was very careful about covering her tracks.

Surprising, yes. (Perhaps more so if she happened to be dating the old hermit above the wand shop, but Violet was sure it had to be another Vaillancourt.)

As Cora continued, promising only a couple of minutes more, Violet went over her schedule in her head. It was written neatly, in her hand, in a day book she kept more for habit’s sake and because records could always be useful. But she’d memorized it, was used to doing so. The impending meeting in an hour or so would not prove humorous.

Violet’s eyes had strayed only for a moment, to examine a rack of cloaks that seemed to be reserved for customers who needed them custom-tailored. That was how long it took for a drop of a blood to surface on skin, and the subtle, metallic scent— an acrid, fiercely beckoning meal to a vampire’s nose— to reach her. Her head turned back fast, so fast that it was almost unassuming, and her the usually calm-water gaze that could be idle or eerie seemed crisp with something.

The fangs in her mouth seemed to reverberate, caught off guard, but Violet’s mouth was firmly shut, pursed with gentle interest. The reaction could be involuntary, even for the most well-behaved, time-tested vampires. But usually a dot of blood did not call on the sharks; it would have made walking down the street impossible. Still, it was unexpected, the scent and sight when they were here, in the dress shop, alone. Cora seemed fine, barely pricked.

Violet pulled her eyes obediently from the sprouting seed of red, and stood still as a statue, just as she had before. Her gaze returned to the mirror, where it fastened upon her own reflection, her own eyes. They were tranquil once again. While time seemed to have slowed, somehow, even in her quick movement, it was only a matter of seconds, of eye blinks. “You didn’t bleed on the robes,” she said dryly. It was her own way of dismissing the apology. Cora was of skilled hand and had had the fortune of meeting with Violet at the start of her day. All tailors had to bleed at one point, or they hadn’t earned it— though the particularly awful ones were so tedious. (And Violet did not mind telling them so.)