The coarsest material could be turned to perfection under his hands, a silk ribbon as fine as a studded necklace. He has seen all, heard all, and made for all, but as any man knows, time will undo any thread made by any man, for it is fragile as the turning tides. For the Dressmaker, he learned all this, and more, and when the Doom came to his front door, all he could do was open his arms to its embrace. Slight AU, with a few OCs.

The coarsest material could turn to perfection under his hands. With a needle in hand and a spindle by his side, he could turn the roughest, ugliest cloth into a thing of beauty, hands weaving and fingers tightly grasping a tiny needle. One, two, three and four, the thread would dive, through and through, black or blue or purple or red, moulding two cloths together, like two partners finally reunited after a long interregnum. He could turn fantasies into reality; he could turn contours and lead dust on paper to a corset flocked with ribbons or a hat trimmed with flowers, or bright red shoes with gems embedded 'round the edges. He could turn the cheapest material into the most sought after price in the era, with peasants basking in awe at his skill and nobles turning their noses up, although, secretly, they too were awed.

Such was his work, turning the simplest things into works of beauty. It was an art form that required the utmost patience and skill, with eyes sharp as a hawk to thread the needles and hands to coil the yarns of thread. Like the whalers on their mighty ships, he toiled and fought, and despite that no cold, ice-pecked winds flew in his eyes or the allures of the whirlpools dragged him under, his work was just as valuable. And to an ordinary man, his work was unfit for a man. Why waste time on making silly dresses and staring at drawings when a man could stomp into the earth, claim lands and win battles? Why sit in a dusty room with the shades drawn and the sun setting behind your back?

Why neglect the world? Why, why, why indeed. He had been asked why many times, and to all of them he said:

"There is much pride in my work, whether you acknowledge it or not. The hats that don your heads, the shoes that protect your feet, and the jewels that crown your wife's neck, they are all done by men like me. It is an art, one that is highly appreciated. You will see. You will see."

They did not laugh at him. As a young boy, he did not find much interest in toy swords or play-fighting. He did not see the groaning whales and bloodied hooks as majestic or the towering steel of clock-towers as beautiful. He, like many young boys, had been graced with the industrial epoch, and those who had died from fever or stomach diseases stood by his side, pointing their fingers or staring at him when he was not looking. Medicine had saved them from death's cruel grip, yet in return, had given them life's cruel laughter. Their laughter bounced off his ears like rocks off steel, clanging and ringing until they faded in the distance, reminding him of the growing ugliness of the modern world.

He much preferred the old gothic buildings, with spires that sloped at unnatural angles and finely crafted, oddly shaped windows brought much to the imagination. When he could escape the choking smells of coal dust and oil, he sat there, observing and sketching the old buildings that rested together like a black quilt. The comforting, homely scene of yellow and orange lights dappling the streets eased him from the coarseness of his life, or rather, of life in general.

Much had been accomplished; much had been overthrown. Life was progressing, people were strolling at their pleasure at shops and public events, and the long nights were giving way to the brighter, sun-filled days that were so rare in the years. There was happiness etched on every face. Even beggars that hid daggers in their trousers had them, and while they had their deviousness, they were still genuine. And their opposites, the grumbled, riled Watch guards, were pleasant on their own. There were hardly any public executions or arrests; no storming down homes and dragging out offenders by the roots of their hair. There were no screams of horror or of pleasure, for there really was no reason for it.

Life was progressing, faster than he would have liked, and for a while, he thought he could not keep up. He was nostalgic, finding more worth and meaning in the old buildings, whose craftsmen had seen their upraising more of an art than a necessity.

Perhaps...no, that was the problem with the modern world. Everything was a necessity: this must be done, that cannot be performed, and these must be sacrificed for the sake of others. It was not the first time in history where such sacrifices happened, but in his era, it was particularly brutal. Many had died at labour in terrible accidents, whether by saw in the slaughterhouses or by shrapnel in the rail yards from exploding cargo. Taxes were raised, workers demanded compensation, and worker's unions sprouted up, like wildflowers to the trimmed garden. There were petitions, complaints, outrages, and public demonstrations, all which were shot down by the Watch; or, had they gotten violent, the army stepped in, or if worse, the dreaded elite guards that worked alongside the spies.

It was inescapable: fear and progress. The two went well together, but they didn't sit well with him. There was no beauty in this modern world, no grace, no pride in work, and that, he thought, was what needed to change. The talent and expertise used for the old architecture had to return; there had to be beauty in this ever-changing, fast progressing world, else the generations after his own would look burn and snort on such ugliness.

He could not tolerate that. There had to be art. There had to be grace. And so, that was why he studied drawings late into the night and early into the mornings, tracing graphite with his fingers and imagining art in his head. At times, he could not sleep, for his mind was ablaze with ideas and motions, of colours and softness and contours that absolutely had to be put down on paper. It was treasonous not to.

His fingers moved on their own, even when his eyes were not open. He jotted down notes, he sketched and circled, he listened as horses whinnied and trotted through the streets below him. He scrapped, he erased, and he tore up paper, with the wastebasket by his desk slowly becoming filled with scraps of white and gray. He pulled at his hair, he rubbed his eyes, he groaned in displeasure when a design wasn't right.

Something was missing. There was always something missing. Either the design was too big, too impractical, or just plain ugly and he had to destroy it. No matter how many times he gripped his eraser or used his geometry set, nothing could settle well in his head. A piece, a foundation, a shingle or window, was missing or closed or missing or whatever, and he simply couldn't find it.

More hairs were pulled from his scalp, more tea was drunk and the occasional bottle of whiskey was thrown at the wall. In his head, he could hear the taunts of his classmates, calling him a coward or lame or stupid or –or – or –

Enough. Enough already. He just wasn't interested. He let them have their fights and bloody noses and red ears from the numerous pullings they got from their parents, and in return, they let him have his peace. Aside from the verbal abuse, they never touched him. They never pulled on his shirt and clawed at his eyes, they never put rats or other animals into his knapsack or tore up his books. They simply watched him as he sat, watching and sketching the world around him. But they taunted from afar.

In a way, they had a point. It was not masculine behaviour for a boy to study drawings or take an interest in needlework, because they were female things, and a boy that took interest in girlish things clearly had something wrong with them. True; it was unnatural, but he wasn't doing it for the sake of housework or for hobby. He was doing it to restore the lost beauty of the world. Along with needlework, he studied math, geometry, geography and anatomy, all of which were heavily male-centric, and all of which saved his reputation. He was the silent, observant boy, who pointed out inconsistencies and angered many a seasoned man who thought they knew everything.

And it wasn't just men he angered; he angered many women who thought they were expert dressmakers, and instead of a reprimand, he got a strong back-hand to the face.

Many nights he had to put cold meat to his cheek. Women, when angered, were dangerous, and could hit just as well as any man. And they could be set off easier, too. He learned that from pointing out that certain colours did not go or that certain fabrics would irritate the skin would set them on him like a boar to blood. Oftentimes, he was terrified to even come to work, lest he be chased out by a woman wielding a knife or a large needle to pluck out his eye. But as days passed and progressed, they retired, they grew sick with age or heartbreak, and were replaced by kinder, more beautiful women who had no knowledge of thread or cloth and who, unlike their predecessors, were open to ideas. Women from all across the Isles: well-endowed, blonde and blue-eyed Tyvians, boisterous and grumpy black-haired Morlish, sly and promiscuous olive-skinned Serkonans and natives from Gristol. Compared to the others, Gristians were proud, stiff and wooden, refusing to accept progress unless it was by their own hands. To see other women that were often wiser and graceful than them insulted them, and many Gristian women left as soon as they saw the foreigners in the front hall.

He had seen their faces; their turned up and wrinkled noses and smelled their heavy perfumes, and heard their heels crack against marble as they stomped away. It did not bother him, because to him, if they were so unwilling to see the beauties of the world, they had no place in it. If they were unwilling to see change, to see their own faces alighted by bright and colourful fabrics and stylish clothing, so be it, but let him change it for the better.

He was not alone, and his foreign helpers were delighted in seeing this Imperialist teach them with patience and enthusiasm. They watched with wide eyes as his fingers, calloused and thick, weaved thread so majestically. They covered their mouths when he showed them his drawings, the pages and pages and tomes upon tomes of designs that screamed off the page. Their faces paled (or darkened if they were Tyvian) at the pages, and their fingers curled nervously at their sides, fearful of wrecking the work of this strange, yet open man.

In the beginning, there were mistakes. Threads were cut too short or were not trimmed, cloth was ripped or the misfortune of a sewing machine impaling a needle in a user's hand. There was blood, there were broken fingers, there were tears, there was more hair pulled, and more cloth bought. Yet despite the accidents and flying scissors and whirr of machines, his workers grew to love him. Whenever they made a mistake, they approached him with tears in their eyes, apologizing profusely at their misgivings, begging him to keep them employed. He would take their hands in his, tell them that mistakes would happen, and that no matter what, he would not fire them for petty things like that.

There were sniffles, then smiles, then bows and thank-yous, and there were more hums and whirrs of machines. They did not complain, they were punctual, and they arrived each morning with smiles and skips. His tomes grew smaller and smaller as his designs came to life, and bit by bit, piece by piece, his small shop bought from a friend had turned into one of the most popular places in his town. People brought coin, daughters, and suggestions, asking the quiet, humble man to make things for them. He'd sit and listen to their requests, jotting down their words and arriving at a price and date. He'd give them their slip, bid them on their way, and went back to work.

And by the setting sun and rising sun, his business grew, and soon, he could not stay in this small area which he had called his home. While he had earned enough wealth to pay his bills and employees, he could not afford business loans or grants from the Barrister. The crowds that flocked his shop were not particularly wealthy; most having just enough for small luxuries and not the enormous mansions that graced the Estate District. They shook their heads in disappointment at his predicament, yet congratulated him on his talents. He'd respond, telling them that it was not just him but his employees too, but they would not hear of it. They focused on him and only him, and placed a small lump of coins in his hands. He'd count them, say it was too much, and hand back what they overpaid.

They had refused, and this refusal would continue. His predicament had turned into opportunity when he had refused over-payment from a customer, who had turned out to be a well-known noble and friend of the Barrister. His humility and skill had pleased her enough to go straight to the Barrister, requesting that this tailor be granted a large working space and be given accommodations for his growing business.

The request had been approved. His shack of a business moved to Draper's Ward, the historic place for fashion and boutiques, his exotic beauties trailing behind him.

The door had been crafted, the window opened, and the lights blazing on his head. Within the first day of business, trails of curious customers stood, shivering or huddling with their partners in the chilling breeze, talking among themselves about this quiet man with his foreign, yet beautiful, employees that stood by his side. Who was this man? Where did he learn his trade? Where did he come from?

Why did he refuse so much? This they asked, and much more, while they huddled and waited their turn for this man to make their fashion. They got their turn, they saw, they gasped, and they handed out coin. Women begged their husbands or fathers to buy them this or that, and children pointed and blushed at the curvy, elegant women that attended his shop. They touched silks, they ran velvet through their fingers, and they rubbed fur against their cheeks. They fingered price tags and tapped their lips in thought. They asked him questions. He answered. They asked why his prices were so cheap. He said that it was for the best. They guffawed. They asked him about his drawings and commissioned him for more. He obliged, but without a price. He said that he did those things for a hobby, out of duty, and that those things had no living price.

Preposterous, they said. Life is about wealth, and you cannot refuse these opportunities. Do you want to end up a beggar?

He shrugged. "It is art," he said. "Art has no price."

They shook their heads in response, but it was not out of spite. They were jealous of his humility and care, of his respect and love for his work and workers. And deep inside their twisted, coiled hearts, they admired him. Men such as he were rare, and while he got his snickers and snorts, he was respected. No one tried to burn down his shop or loot him, and even the earliest gangs left him alone, and sometimes, they would come in his shop, asking for his wares.

He accepted them all. He worked, he tore up paper, he worked at spindle and thread until his eyes fell from sleep. Even then, he still worked, muscles sharp from memory and mind refusing to shut down. He toiled and sighed and rubbed his eyes, he drew and sketched and bought cloth from the merchant ships.

He'd shiver in his thin coat as the ships came in, the waves parting as the docked in the shipyard. Languages of all sorts clashed in his ears, laughter and curses and cat-calls all sung in a variety of tongues. Steel ships and wooden ships, confiscated pirate ships and decommissioned rebel ships all docked here, rotten or glistening in the morning air. He'd stand and watch for his translator, a Tyvian girl who shopped for bulk products in the dawn, arrive, blonde hair bouncing and dress swaying around her ample legs.

She had a smile on her face, which caused him to smile too. He waved, and she returned it. She trotted next to him, fur-lined boots snug around her ankles, and cried:

"Look, look! They've brought in Pandyssians! Come see, come see!"

His eyebrows furrowed, but despite this protest, the Tyvian grabbed his hand, leading him through the morning crowd (which was, thankfully, small and not too over-populated). She skipped and danced her way through them, forcing him to watch his steps. She'd look behind now and then, beaming wider and wider as she waltzed to the end of the shipyard. There, a ship, covered in barnacles and seaweed and riddled with holes, rocked on the water, a stream of people filing out of it.

He frowned. The ship no doubt belonged to the Pendleton family, given the shape of its hull and the people who manned it; hardened, cruel slave-masters who had more fun poking people with hot irons than drinking with friends. They cracked and rolled their necks, shuffling and organizing their catch on the docks. They lead them through, nudging when necessary, and shoving when it was needed. But what puzzled him was the looks on their faces: they were confused, and he caught many scratching their heads and giving their comrades strange looks.

He was about to turn to the Tyvian for answers when one moved into his field of vision. Now, he could understand why there was so much confusion.

The Pandyssians that were filed and examined were not like the ones he heard about. Most had brown hair, and many had black, but what shocked him was the colour of their skin: it was pale. At a glance, they looked no different from Morlishmen or women, and most were conversing with the ship captains in a civilized manner.

He looked at the Tyvian. She beamed again, her cheeks crinkling and reddening as she did so.

"Aren't they pretty? More and more of them come every day! They're really nice, too, but their accents are hard to understand," she said.

"I...are you sure they're Pandyssian?" he asked, confused. "They look Morlish to me."

"That's what everyone thinks at first. Then they start talking and all their doubts are washed away," she replied.

He eyed the women. Nearly all were adults, with fully developed figures and curls that fell past their shoulders. The few that were children would no doubt be put into domestic service, with their elders more likely entering brothels.

After all, Eastern beauties were unheard of, and would fetch the highest price. As for the men, they'd find their fates in the mines, digging for coal and silver under the cruel gaze of the Pendleton twins.

He knew personally that they would want some of these Easterners.

"Nothing like tasting a parcel first and leaving the rest for the dogs," Lord Pendleton remarked. Behind him, his twin sons smirked, and behind them, a postulate child and his manservant eyed a pair of shoes.

Then they left, one after the other, highest carriage to lowest, and trotted away.

And they would trot away with these strange, myth-defying Pandyssians, who, thanks to the Tyvian, watched him as he shivered in his coat, and took to calling him "The Dressmaker."

The name stuck with him, from one man to another, from husband to wife, from gang leader to gang leader, to Empress and Empress.

And after, from witch, to assassin, to another witch, who had greeted him in her accent, hand extended, and asked for a favour.

The Eastern Doom came to his front door, in the ruins of Draper's ward, red leaves floating in the wind, and he embraced it.

It was progress, and she was moving art.

What more could have been said?

A giggle had followed the chiming bells, with the click-click of shoes echoing through his empty shop. He was in the supply room, stocking up spools of threads, when he heard it. He turned his head, furrowing his eyebrows, and stepped out. There were oohs and aahs and the rustles of fabric, along with "so soft" and "I hope mother gets me this." He carefully scouted the room. There was another giggle to his right, and he tried to follow it. Through the sea of pin suits, dresses, corsets and glass cases of shoes, he could not find the source of the giggle, even when its owner had giggled again. He wanted to call out, to ask who was in here and what they wanted, when a flash of white pounced on his counter.

He jumped back and hit his head on a nearby shelf, causing a box of ribbons to fall on his head. The perpetrator laughed, hiding her smile behind a tiny hand. He massaged his temples and set to work cleaning up the mess. He was alone; his workers had not arrived yet and he just opened minutes ago. But this stranger, this giggling monster, had snuck in, dove through the racks and hide in the coats until he had his back turned and was now laughing and drumming her fingers at her work.

He sighed. She tilted her head.

"Hello!" she said cheerfully.

He began wrapping a bundle of ribbon around a spool. "What are you doing in here?"

"Looking," she said. "Everybody says you make pretty things, and I wanted to see your pretty things." She smiled. "Can you make me something?"

He glanced up. The girl looked to be no older than 10, with auburn hair falling past her eyes and large, doe-brown eyes set in a pale face. A red hair band sat on her scalp, complete with a small white ribbon. In contrast, her garb was thick, with a heavy fur coat and thick black stockings. At her feet, there were ankle-high boots, made (from what he could smell) of the finest leather. At her neck was a brooch in the shape of a swan, which he regarded carefully.

Clearly, she was some nobleman's daughter.

All the better to watch his mouth, then.

"That depends," he replied after a pause. "What would you like?"

The girl opened her mouth and made a sound. "Maybe...a dress? Or a coat? Or maybe you can make me a holster!"

"A holster for what?"

"A gun! Like the ones the Officers have! Or, or those big, big ones the élite guards wear! Or maybe a scabbard! Or maybe you could make me a great big flag! Could you do it? Please, please please!" The girl begged, jumping up and down in excitement.

"Uh...what? I – I'm terribly sorry, but...isn't that rather...unfitting for a girl?" He stammered. "I mean, it's...well, those are violent things, and they can hurt people."

"I know that," the girl said. "But I want you to make them for me. It'll be a secret. I'll pay for it myself and you can make me whatever you like. Could you do that?"

He guffawed. "I...I can't. I mean, I don't know if I can. Unless...well, who are your parents?"

She lifted her nose in pride. "My mother is a very powerful woman, and so am I. I can make it a capital offense for you to refuse me, you know."

He stood up, the ribbons neatly stacked in a box, and set it back on the shelf. Then, he made his way around the counter and faced the girl properly.

"What do you mean, 'capital offense?' I haven't done anything wrong," he said.

The girl flicked a bit of hair out of her eyes. "Sure you have. You questioned my authority, which means that you defied me. That brings a lot of punishment," she replied.

If he were any other man, he would have picked her up by the scruff of her neck and threw her out the door like a sack of rotten food, or reprimanded her for her disrespect. But he was not like those men.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The girl crossed her arms triumphantly.

"Listen, I – eugh –"

A pair of arms had wrapped around his neck, squeezing the life out of him. Instinctively, his hands grasped at the invading arms, trying to pry them off. His head rolled from side to side, eyes bulging and rolling back in his head.

Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing, and as black dots started to flock in his vision, he knew he was being knocked unconscious.

He gagged, he gasped, and he flailed whatever limbs he could. But his assailant was twice his size, twice his strength, and twice as silent.

He knew he should've locked the back door.

There was a cry. "Corvo! Corvo, please stop! He didn't do anything wrong! I was just playing! Please, please put him down!"

There was a huff, or a grunt, and just like that, he dropped to the floor like a sack of rocks. He grabbed his throat and gasped down as much air as he could. The black dots started to disappear, and bit by bit, the girl re-appeared, kneeling before him, eye brimming with tears.

"I am so, so sorry, Mister! I didn't think he'd do that!" she cried. She looked up behind him. "Corvo. Why did you do that? He wasn't hurting me. We were just talking!"

"Forgive me, Lady Emily, but I did what I had to. You sounded distressed, and so I responded."

"Well, you can make yourself look better by helping him up!" 'Emily' said. "Go on, pick him up and set him back on his feet."

His boots did not make a sound as he moved. A hand gripped the back of his collar, and he was dragged up without so much a grunt. He swayed on his feet, gripping his head as he struggled for balance. When he was sure the vertigo was over, he faced his assailant.

And he nearly fainted because of that. Before him stood the infamous Serkonan and Royal Protector, Corvo Attano, who watched him with dark, careful eyes and whose form was fluid yet rigid, waiting for the chance to strike. Bearing the olive-skinned, rich skin of Serkonos and the attire of a native of Gristol, Corvo looked like an assassin and not the Empress' bodyguard. His sharp jaw was clenched tightly, and he bowed his head in respect.

"You must forgive me. I only acted to protect my charge," Corvo apologized. "I trust you understand."

His jaw nearly fell off its hinges. A nervous laugh came out, ending with a whine. He started shaking. "I – I did not expect the Empress' daughter and the Royal Protector!" he stammered. "I-I-I –"

Corvo, in a human gesture, placed a hand on his shoulder, and he worried for a moment that Corvo would crush his shoulder or his nerves. But he did not.

"Calm yourself," Corvo said. "You did not mean disrespect. Lady Emily here," Corvo glanced at her, "should have properly introduced herself, instead of barging into unoccupied businesses."

Despite his polite gesture, his accent only made him seem more ominous. So much that a tremor did not pass through his back, but stayed his stomach, rattling it like the plates on a riverbed.

He could not even swallow. But he collected himself as best he could, and lastly, managed to speak, all the while crumbling under the watchful and scrutinous gaze of the Lord Protector.

"Perhaps...I should have been more formal," he said quietly. "I did not think –"

"No need for explanations. Lady Emily escaped my side and went exploring without a formal escort. I thank you for your patience, and for staying your hand," Corvo replied, once again bowing his head. But the last point, 'staying your hand' was uttered darkly, promising the most brutal punishment had he even plucked a hair from the Lady Emily's head. And those punishments, he had heard, made the lifetime servitude in the Pendleton mines seem like paradise. Plenty of heads had rolled at the snap of the Empress' fingers, and twice as many necks snapped as their owners grew too close. One of the reasons why Corvo was so feared was not because of his statue or foreign title, but of his stoicism.

A stoic man was a loyal man, and a loyal man did all, from the extremist view to the conservative, to protect the interests and well being of his charge. A stoic man was not affected by the whims and tears of those he had broken, and a stoic man was a feared man. Corvo had fit all of those descriptions, and, along with his professional stance and wild-cat pounces, he was unpredictable.

All the better for the Empress, but all the worse for him.

Now that he thought about it, not touching the Lady Emily was a good thing, or the arms that had coiled around his neck would have done more than squeeze out air.

Without a sound, Corvo turned on his heel, and beckoned Lady Emily to him. She, palms flat against a class case holding a collection of rare, important brooches, hesitated before skipping to her bodyguard's side. In a surprising gesture, Corvo lent his hand, which she grasped tightly, and slowly began to lead her out. But before her bodyguard opened the door, she glanced at him, waved a small hand, and smiled, before the autumn air of Draper's Ward washed through the shop.

The tremor that had dwelled in his stomach finally passed through, but it was not of fear. Rather, it was one of relief, and one of affection, for the strange girl that had ran through his shop had, in a few moments, vexed him in all the grandeur of an Empress.

He had hoped that next time, their encounter would be better, and he would not teeter on the edge of her bodyguard's stoic power.

A Pendleton had come up to him, coat tattered and frayed, and with a scowl placed a heap of coins on the counter. From first impressions, it seemed that the coat had been set on by hounds: the rich green ruined by sludge and the threads hanging out like waving ropes. He ran his fingers across it, noticing tears here and there, and pinpointing where teeth had set in and where claws had sunk. As he turned it round and round in his hands, the Pendleton huffed and snorted, tapping a foot impatiently and giving glances to his manservant, a weathered, sturdy young man clearly strong enough to manage the outbursts and outrages of the Pendleton clan.

And surely, he had to be worthy enough to manage the impudence of the postulate one – one such Treavor Pendleton.

"Well, what is it? Can you fix it, or not?" Pendleton snapped, clearly bothered by his pause.

He kept his face even despite the outburst. "Yes, I can fix it. But based on the damage, it might take longer than usual."

"How long?"

"I'd say about two or three days. Maybe less, if you absolutely need it," he said.

Pendleton wrinkled his nose. "It takes that long?"

"The damage is extensive, as I have said. It will take longer than usual, but I can have it finished by the end of the day, if you'd like."

The manservant turned his head towards his master. "My Lord, I believe that is a fair bargain, and the Dressmaker is not known for his ineptitude."

Treavor hmphed as his fingers curled around his neck cuffs.

The postulate child could be as violent as his brethren, if not more. All the more to watch his steps.

"Well, considering that you are quite good at your job, and don't charge much, I suppose it is a fair bargain," Treavor said.

He counted the coins, making sure all was in order, and nodded. "Alright. I'll see you at the end of the day, then, Lord Pendleton."

He was about to say, and please give greetings to your brothers for me, but held it. He knew that the youngest Pendleton was despised by his elders, and with the recent illness of the eldest, the original Lord Pendleton, had set them on each other like rabid animals, with Treavor on the receiving end of most of these assaults.

Despite his sickly-looking face and sunken eyes, Treavor Pendleton was not a man to be crossed. He was clever, if not cleverer than his twin brothers, and he guessed that that would come in handy someday. But for now, Treavor seemed pleased, or at least satisfied, and left the shop with his manservant in tow. But the manservant lingered behind for a few minutes, and whispered to him:

"I thank you for being discreet about my Lord's complications. You have his appreciation and respect."

He inclined his head, once. "It's not an issue. Most questions don't need to be asked or answered. I leave them be."

"But truly, he has your respect," the manservant continued, "and I believe he will be a frequent customer, so I suggest –"

"Wallace! What in the Void are you waiting for? I have appointments to attend to and I can't be seen here!"

Wallace adjusted his coat, attempting to hide the cringe that sneaked across his face. "Perhaps we shall speak again soon, sir. At a better time, hopefully."

He nodded. "Best of luck on your travels."

They said their goodbyes.

As requested, the coat was finished at the end of the day, and his Tyvian, known as Eudoxia, presented it inside a well-furnished box, complete with a ribbon seal and tissue paper. He opened it, made sure all was perfected and orderly, and closed it, telling Eudoxia to place it on the shelf until the Pendleton arrived. Pendleton would be pleased, if not in person, then at least in appreciation. That was all he asked for.

And that was mostly what he got. His customers had more praises for his employees than him, though they often gave him thanks or courtesies in letters and hidden notes. He wasn't sure whether it was a diplomatic issue since he almost hit a future Empress, or a social one, given that he was a low-born that had a string of successes while his richer neighbours faced foreclosure. Either way, it didn't impede his business, even with the troubles looming with reports of gang warfare. The Hatters had popped up again like hamsters on their wheels, and were desperate to take back what had been taken from them. But with business growing and profit soaring, destroying this place would be costly to them, if not in reputation, than in profit.

There weren't many worries. His employees knew how to defend themselves and Eudoxia was growing closer to him. It had become habit, even a morning ritual, for them to go to the dockyard to see the ships come in, bearing fruits and ore and steel and fur and other goods. But the ones she loved the most were the slaving ships, who brought back more and more Pandyssians, black-haired and blue-eyed and all. And like their rituals, they too had a ritual of waving to him, shouting "Dressmaker" and "thread weaver" in thick, almost horrendous accents. Despite the odds of them living a horrible life in darkness and abuse, they waved to him and smiled at him, as if he was the star in their world.

And he was the growing star in Eudoxia's world, which began to look at him with more than admiration in her eyes. She learned baking and gardening, reading and etiquette, and began to teach her peers in the same manner as he did: enthusiastic, loyal, and loving. Soon, his Serkonan, Caterina, had learned how to dance and sing; his Morlishwoman, Beatrice, how to knit; and finally, he had accepted the hand of his beautiful Eudoxia, who comforted him and took on jobs that he could not accomplish. Soon, they were inseparable, and their morning rituals became tradition, with more and more people calling him "The Dressmaker".

That was the name they called him, the Pendleton Twins, as they arrived. Both were finely dressed with matching apparel; from the slick of their hair to the tips of their toes they matched, both elegant and dashing, with loose smiles on their faces. They had two courtesans wrapped around their waists, clearly bribed and dressed out of their bathhouse, considering that it was unethical for working girls to go with customers out of their own protection. But with the Pendletons, they were dressed with waist-coasts and knee-high heeled boots, with netted veils covering their faces. They did not appear distressed, but instead drunk with ecstasy, the usual courtesy of this family.

Custis, business entrepreneur extraordinaire, had the better catch: he had two Morlish girls around him, both blue-eyed and dark-haired, who were identical (fitting, he thought. Twins for a twin) with large, toothy smiles. Their heavily painted eyelids contrasted against their skin, as well as create a fairer portrait compared to the girls wrapped around Morgan. Around the crueler, more demanding twin, was a pair similar to the Morlish girls, but they watched their surroundings like worried gazelles, gazes flicking this way and that, seeking an exit or an entry point to escape. Morgan's arms were curved firmly around their shoulders, binding them to him, flesh shackles reeling in prey. The girls did not speak, but he had a vague idea of what they were.

It appeared that the Pendletons had caught a good catch, with rare Pandyssians at their side. There was no doubt they were expensive, with prices ludicrous even to the richest noble, but they performed well. They did not ask questions or fought back, but could have bites like bear-traps if provoked enough.

Eastern beauties had unique curses, and could inflict them on anyone they wished. But, he guessed, under the lull of coin (or in this case, something shiny) they would do whatever their master wanted.

And Morgan was, indeed, a cruel master, if he heard the stories right. But in this shop, in this realm, he had the guise of a learned man, eager to learn and to win. That explained their hubris, and explained their façade of kindness.

"Hello, there!" Custis greeted. "I hope you won't mind our entourage. We got a little bored on the way here and decided to bring company." A smile followed, along with a smirk from the other. The women simply giggled.

"Not at all. What would you like?"

"Hmm...," Custis wondered. "I think...oh, yes. I'd like to buy something for these lovely ladies, who have been ever so kind to me. What you recommend?"

He eyed the women carefully, examining their forms, their eyes, their hair, their shapes. It was clockwork, his analysis, and from first glances he knew exactly what he wanted, and what his customers wanted, too. But for the Pendleton twins, their tastes could range from anywhere to odd to outrageously insane, all backed up with the right amount of coin.

So, with grace and patience, he offered his recommendations: a cut of boot to show off their legs, yet keep modesty; a coat to show off their curves yet keep them warm, and hats that would complement their hair and faces, not hide it. He made his offers, earned a few nods and raised eyebrows, and at the end, had a few coins placed next to his hands.

"By the way, Mr. Dressmaker, have you ever had an Eastern girl before?" Morgan asked deviously. "They are such wild little things, and so lovely. Much better than any local girl, wouldn't you say, brother?"

Custis grinned. "Oh, indeed. Voluptuous and supple. And to think they came from Pandyssia, of all places. It makes you wonder what really lives in that continent," Custis said.

"More Easterners like these, I hope," Morgan quipped. "I can't get enough of them. Makes me think twice about placing them in the mines, don't you think brother?"

"Absolutely. Maybe we can get baby Treavor one, if she doesn't bite his ear off like the last one did." Custis chuckled. "I can still hear him screaming for help. That one had more bite than a viper, wouldn't you say, brother?"

"We should put a pair of Easterners in his bed." Morgan grinned devilishly. "Under the covers. Late at night. Lock the doors and put them in there. We can place bets on how long he'll last."

"Or how loudly he screams," Custis added. "Or how hard the women bite. Not like you fine ladies," Custis motioned to the girls, squeezing their hips as he spoke. "You're gentle. Now these girls, they're vicious. Little monsters, but so cute at the same time."

The courtesans around Custis giggled, like schoolgirls learning a secret. The ones around Morgan did not.

It was clear the language barrier prevented them from commenting. He wasn't sure if they even understood what the twins were saying.

Maybe that was a good thing. They didn't need to hear the vile comments coming from the Pendleton's mouths. No one did, but they were rich, they were intelligent, and they were cunning. Parliament raised them up and kept them there, and despite these short-comings, to be in their presence and not be the blunt of their jokes was a good thing.

His reputation did help him, after all.

And it distracted them from their brother, whose repaired coat was just inches behind him.

Luck surely was on his side.

"Well...," Custis mused, "I think we've had enough of here. Wouldn't you say, brother?"

"Indeed. But I must thank Mr. Dressmaker here for his wonderful recommendations." Morgan smiled. "I can see why you're so popular. I have no reason to suspect that our orders will be...compromised, will they?"

Ah, yes, that slander. It wasn't new, but at the same time, it was insulting. Having that accusation thrown at him made him seem like a saboteur; or worse, murderer.

There had been incidences of nobles being burned to death in their own cloths, not of fire, but of powder. Lye was a great cleaning product yet a great killer. The corrosive powder could be sprinkled on a dress or coat, unseen, and when the wearer disturbed it, they would run screaming, flesh being eaten away by the minute. The powder was infamously used during the Insurrection, and since then, was banned from most public places.

It had been both a setback and a reassurance. People wouldn't have to worry in their own clothes, yet kitchens had stains that could not be cleaned.

To think that the Pendletons remembered was reassuring, but detrimental. It opened the door for their mockery and punishments.

He watched himself. It was better to die from lye than be stuck in a mine, a fate which could be for him if he erred. He knew he was above that, but still.

Still.

"Absolutely not," he reassured. "All will be done according to your wishes. I am here to please."

"Wonderful!" The twins said simultaneously.

"We're sure you'll please us wonderfully," Custis started,

"As much as these fine ladies," Morgan added,

"With dear little Treavor in the middle," Custis finished.

There were more giggles, more shaky looks from the Pandyssians, and barks of laughter before the twins departed. Like the Empress and her bodyguard before them, the Pandyssians glanced at him as they left, wonder sparkling in their eyes, and maybe, a touch of gratitude for his kindness.

They would not be seeing it again.

As their laughter died down, he heard a wheeze, and turned his head at the source. To his right, emerging from the back closet was none other than Treavor Pendleton. A kerchief was held at his brow, damp from sweat, and his hair disheveled, likely from his fingers running it through again and again. Wallace was not at his side, and the shaking, terrified postulate child was alone.

Dreadfully alone. His entire form shook, and he could barely stand. He was about to step forward when Treavor collapsed on a nearby chair, heaving. He wiped his forehead again, slowly, and bunched it in a hand.

"They got here before me," Treavor rasped. "They weren't supposed to come before me."

He frowned, yet kept his distance. A cowered animal could still strike, and Treavor was no runt.

"No need to fear, Lord Pendleton. They won't bother you now," he said carefully.

"They got here first...I was supposed to be here first," Treavor said. It was more of a whimper, and he choked on every word. Chances were that he would revert to his snobbish, prudent form, chastising him for his disobedience and being a witness to his fits, or any of those things. He expected the unpredictable.

He waited, and none of those things happened. Instead, Treavor slowly raised his eyes, and looked at him.

"Why are you staring at me?" he barked. "Stop that."

He looked down. "Your suit is finished," he told Treavor.

Treavor nodded, never blinking.

"They were too focused on their girls," he continued. "The better for us, it seems."

"Yes," Treavor said quietly. "Better for us...," he trailed off in a sniffle.

"I take it you heard everything?" he asked gently.

"Yes. They've spent all their time at the Golden Cat with their new prizes," Treavor said. "Good enough for me, but sometimes they bring them back to the manor, and Outsider's eyes, they act like they're possessed!" he exclaimed. "They eat everything they can get their hands on, they touch everything they can, and they bite." Treavor rubbed his neck. "That's all they do. Bite, bite, bite. Vipers, all of them. Worse than the Boyle women. Worse than –"

"Plague?" he offered. "That's always bad."

Treavor laughed weakly. "I'd rather have a plague than spend a night with those girls. Of course, Morgan enjoys them, but me? No, not in the coldest part of the Void would I enjoy them. They're –

"Despicable?" he offered again. "They do come from the East, after all. Outsider knows what lives there."

"The Outsider would be terrified of these women," Treavor complained. "Some investments they are!"

He would have smiled, if he was any other man, but he did not. The Easterners had a strange lull about them that drew strangers to their side. It was like a whale song: beautiful, yet haunting, that could drive men mad. And who knew what lingered beneath their flesh? It certainly wasn't pleasure, according to Treavor Pendleton. But the youngest Pendleton tended to blow things out of proportion; to take matters too seriously when they were not meant to. The man that had entered his shop had been hidden away, but given time, would return again.

And he did, as expected. Treavor shook his head a few times, swallowed his sniffles, and stood up. He fixed the creases in his coat, smoothed back his hair, and returned to his haughty, more diplomatic form.

"Well, where is it? I need it now, and if the twins are going back to the estate, then they're going to expect the best!" Treavor demanded. "I can't have either twin laugh at me, and if they're going to have those monsters running around my quarters, well I'd better be prepared for it," he sneered. "I've paid you, and you've seen enough of me. Let's end this quickly, shall we?"

He nodded, and set the white wrapped box on the counter. He could still smell the crisp tissue paper. "All is in order," he motioned to the box, "and I hope that you are happy, Lord Pendleton."

Treavor stepped forward and snatched the box like a greedy child. He opened it slightly to peek inside (to double-check; what noble didn't do that?) and closed it quickly, satisfied with what he saw. He walked to the front door, but stopped.

"You can take the alley back to the main street. The supply closet has a door. The alley's quite clean and you won't ruin your clothing. It's much quicker, too," he offered.

Lord Treavor Pendleton paused, wrinkled his mouth and walked back the way he came. But instead of stumbling, he stomped, making sure his boots made a sharp clack against the floor. Before he disappeared, he spared him a look.

It was a faint, withered smile.

Eudoxia had her in her lap, singing a song in Tyvian while the child hummed along. Occasionally, the child would try to sing along, but the words tumbled over her tongue, sounding like she had tasted a raw lemon. Eudoxia would then softly correct her, slowly enunciating the phrase, and they would try again, more and more successful as the song continued. When it was over, the girl smiled and clapped her hands.

"You have such a pretty voice! You should sing in the Tower for me!"

Eudoxia laughed. "Oh, little one, you know that I am not worthy of your audience. It is a pleasure enough to sing for you here," she said.

"But I am heir to the Empire! I can decree you to sing for me! You could be my opera singer! Would you do that? Please?"

Eudoxia smiled and dipped her head. "Ah, Lady Emily, you are so demanding," she softly chastised. "You must learn that not everyone can do what you wish. Some things will come with time."

Lady Emily shook her head. "Nu-uh! I want you as my professional singer! All the others are too screechy or too loud, and they even make that nasty Spymaster cringe. But if you were there, you'd make everyone happy," Emily gushed. "Please? Please, please, please?"

Eudoxia gave him a look. "Well, what would you say, my love? Shall I entertain her Highness?"

He paused at his sewing machine and lifted his glasses from his nose. "That's a huge request, my lady. That would have to pass parliament, and I highly doubt the Lord Protector would want me in your presence." He added the last part quietly.

His throat still ached from where Corvo had put him in a choke-hold. He didn't want to relive that memory.

Eudoxia noticed his hesitation. She turned her head to Emily and stroked her hair lovingly. "With all due respect, your Highness, I believe it is best that we stay here. It is not wise to let in strangers and foreigners in your household without official clearance. We do not want to threaten your well-being."

Emily pouted. "But –"

"No buts, your Highness. It is better for you to be in your Tower, with your mother and bodyguard by your side. As an heir, it is your duty to protect your people, and you cannot do that if you do not watch yourself," Eudoxia said softly.

Emily sighed in defeat. "Okay...but I want Mr. Dressmaker to visit me!" she exclaimed, directing her bubbly smile towards him. "The best dresses. Better than everyone else! And then, when people look at me, they'll think I'm the prettiest girl in the world!" She hopped off Eudoxia's lap and skipped towards him, keeping her distance from his sewing machine.

(She had the misfortune of walking in one day and saw a machine jam a needle in his thumb. She, as well as him, couldn't tell what bit was metal and what bone was.)

He eyed the future Empress. Her hair fell in curls around her shoulders, with only a swan pin holding a piece away from her eyes. She clasped her hands behind her back and teetered on her feet, waiting for him to answer.

She already knew what his answer was, but she still wanted to hear him say it.

He was sure Eudoxia wanted to hear it, too.

"If it is allowed, then yes, I shall visit you," he said. "But only on formal occasions and requests. And only if you have ordered something from me."

Lady Emily gasped, hands unclasping and flying to her mouth. "Oh, thank you thank you thank you!" She threw his arms around him. "I knew there was a reason why I liked you, Mr. Dressmaker!"

He gently patted her back. "You are welcome, Highness, but there is one thing that I ask of you in return," he said.

"What is it?" she asked eagerly. "I can do anything!"

He met her at eye level, brown against blue. Imperial against low-born. Girl to man. Excitement against caution.

He hoped she wouldn't stay true to her word and sent a court order against him; or, if she was angry enough, would send Corvo after him.

He really, really hoped she wouldn't be upset by his answer.

"I ask that you do not come back here again, at least without an escort," he said. "You cannot keep sneaking out of the Tower and send the city into frenzy with your disappearances. Who knows what your mother would do if you didn't come back? She would be heartbroken. I'm sure you don't want that to happen, right?"

Emily's head dipped. He held his breath, waiting for the tears to start falling or the fists to start pounding against his chest. He waited for her to start screaming, whether for Corvo or for someone, to come in here and wring his neck for disobedience. He waited for her curses, if she knew them yet.

He waited.

The future Empress raised her head, and to his shock, her eyes did not water. A sad smile was his answer, as well as a pair of arms around his neck.

"You thought I was going to be mad, weren't you?"

"Well, you are the Empress' daughter. People like me have to watch what they say," he said.

She laughed. "You're too proper. You remind me of Corvo." She tilted her head. "But you'll still come, right? You'll come visit me?"

"If my lady allows it," he acknowledged, "then I will."

"And Eudoxia, will she come and sing for me?"

"If my lady allows it."

She laughed again, clapping her hands. "It'll be done, I promise! You'll come see me and make me dresses and Eudoxia can perform operas and sing me to sleep and – and – and –"

" – and my lady should get ready to go back to her Tower," Eudoxia cut in. "It is getting late, and I am sure your mother is worried."

Emily huffed. "She's always so busy. She usually forgets me, and I hate sums. That's why I like coming here. It's bright and sunny and there's history everywhere! I just wish I could stay," she mumbled.

Eudoxia walked over, dress swish-swashing around her heels. She patted Emily on the head reassuringly. "Do not worry, little one. We are still here. And if your mother permits it, we can see you, in due time." Eudoxia took her hand away. "But for now, it is time to go back. Who knows what mice are lingering in the gutter."

He hummed in agreement. "Yes. All the better to leave." He tipped his head towards Emily. "You remember the route, yes?"

She nodded vigorously. "Uh-huh!"

"Good. The Hatters won't notice, then," he muttered.

Eudoxia heard him and frowned. "No need for that, my love," she warned.

He gave her a look. "It isn't my fault they're –"

"Enough! Remember who is here!"

"I know –"

"I have something for you!" Emily announced, ending the would-be inferno between them. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, silver-lined object, and thrust it in his hands.

He paused, staring at the strange object in his palm. He raised it to his eyes, closer to the light, so he could see what it was.

His face sunk when he realized what it was. It was a monogram, silver-encrusted with an ivory swan in the centre, complete with small, tear-shaped diamonds around the edges of its wings. For a monogram, it was quite large, taking up half his palm, where others were barely the size of a man's thumb. The diamonds sparkled as he tilted it in his hand, melting into the ivory when the light was right. It was simple, yet gorgeous, and had been crafted with care. But what engraved behind the swan worried him.

E.K.

And below it, a lock of hair, that formed a black pond.

He only wished he had time to see what would besiege him after receiving that gift.

She left him a single note, signed with a shaky hand, yet written with a mad scribble. He did not see her leave, but when she did, she left a crater in her wake. It was not from his broken heart or torn soul (those had been broken months earlier, if not years) but from her madness, her lunatic eyes that shook and cowered when he met them. The blue eyes she was famous for had turned from a deep, rich cobalt to a thin, powdered blue film, making her look like she was blind. Her fingers, nimble and strong, had turned bony, like twigs on the forest floor that cracked when someone stepped on them. Her form fell like the clothes off her shoulders: she lost weight, her hips became bony, and she began to resemble the walking corpses that prowled in the night.

The place where he had earned his keep, where he had made a name for himself, burned in a collection of ash and oil. When the first stages began to appear – the coughs and moans and red eyes – the Watch came, and behind them, wolfhounds and Overseers, and lastly, the rats that sought an easy meal. It had come in stages, as most illnesses did, with the first signs dismissed as hoaxes, as jokes played on them by greedy rivals, with a wave of their hands. They turned up their noses at it, just as they had to him, and thought nothing of it.

But when it didn't go away and their daughters and wives did not come home, did they realize that cruel hoax was, in fact, a bitter reality.

It had cleared out half of Draper's Ward in the first day. On the second, Draper's Ward opened with the sound of chirping birds and munching rats. And later, the sound of cursing Hatters and taunting Dead Eels filled the void.

He knew it would come down to this. Draper's Ward had for years been Hatter's territory, with their token top hats coming from the very area. With the loss of territories and river fronts to rival gangs, they retreated to their homeland, hiding in the textile factories and carrying on their operations without interruption. At the time, however, profit and business was good, and they were pacified enough to let people go on about their business safely. Now, with plague as the dominant power, they could resume their old practices of looting, robbing and murder.

But they did not expect the Dead Eels, whose own influence was growing in the area. It was a matter of time before the two powers boiled over and started strangling one another in public.

Who would've thought that it would all come down to plague? He didn't, and surely, most didn't, either. But he could not afford to leave, and as wave after wave of Hatters broke through windows and doors, he sealed up his shop with bars and chairs, and moved to the second floor, his current run-down home.

He was alone, and though the bloody tears did not come, he wished that they did, as his lady wife was gone. But whether it was from heartbreak or from fear of her, he wasn't sure, but it must have been a mix of both.

Her last appearance was nothing short of madness. The only thing that stayed the same was her hair, the yellow, sunshine hair that brought vividness and beauty to his dull world. But it failed to bring vividness to her. Her eyes shook with madness, her laughs more like cackles than pure humour, and her speech in fragments and mutters. She would sit in her chair, shaking like she had the mind-shakes, and whisper quickly under her breath, wishing death on someone she knew or hated. When she drank tea, she'd stare at her reflection, whimpering or throwing the cup at the wall, screaming that someone was watching her, cursing her with insects or lice to gnaw on her flesh and hair. She refused to eat anything other than lamb, and even then, she'd poke at the flesh profusely until she got the courage to take a bite.

Her eyes never stopped shaking. Whatever had overcome her had stolen her will, and had turned her into a hideous version of herself. She refused to touch him or kiss him, and even refused to share the same space with him. When she refused to talk, she wrote letters, but when he read them, all he could make out was scribbles and block-letters. Her phrases were simple and violent, saying things such as:

Kill that man. He is tasty and flesh is good.

She itches. Itches, itches itches. Bugs everywhere.

Bugs burrow. Eat. Eat out heart. Victim dies. Itchy, itchy.

Little black beetle. Eats heart. Flesh-eater. Dead and alive. Itches.

Doom is here. Bloody eyes. Pale horse. Rotten horse. Bad flesh, bad flesh.

Old woman near whiskey. Chants strange. Wants blood. Eastern blood. East, east, death from East.

Fleshy. Old man is fleshy. Wheezes. Beetles will take him. Itchy, itchy, eat eat eat.

She later refused eating altogether. She muttered that the blood was bad and that insects crawled on its skin. She cried in the night, clawing at her face and pulling her hair out in clumps, screaming that they were crawling in his hair. When he approached her with soothing words and a cup of tea, she screamed at him.

"Get away, get away! She's there, she's there! Bugs everywhere! Bad flesh, bad flesh!"

And he would run, run as far away as he could, and hold his hands over his ears, waiting for her to scream herself to sleep. In a horrid twist of luck, she went mad during the plague's coming, and would not drive away customers. She did, however, scare away thieving Hatters, who thought a witch was inside.

What horrid luck. As the river dried up along with his profits, there was little he could do but wait. Help would not come, nor would the Empress, who had been horribly murdered by her own bodyguard. And Lady Emily, the girl who had grown to love him, who offered him his prized monogram, had gone missing.

A dread followed that premise; if Lady Emily was not found, plague would find her, and she would return to the Tower with the bloody tears. Worse, she was already dead of plague, and her body was rotting somewhere, whether bloated in a river or deep beneath the ground, never to be found or marked. Under a wrap or under a blanket, all citizens were the same, and all could not escape the Rat Plague.

The girl that he met by chance, who had grown to adore him by chance, and who welcomed him into her home and earned the love of her mother, was gone, leaving only a lock of hair in his palm. His wife, the beautiful Tyvian singer who had wooed her, was gone, lost behind a fit of madness, standing in a pool of water in a mansion somewhere, staring at her own reflection until the light could shine no more.

All she had left was a letter that had become crinkled from his hands. He could never forget her words.

Itchy,

Itchy. Lady will come. Lots of flowers. No itches. Soft. Colours. Lots of colours. Will want hair. Her hair. Don't refuse. Give in, or else will be itchy. Will leave. Fine to be scared. But she is not itchy. The second, second one itches. Bugs. Bugs everywhere. Bugs eating flowers. Will have glass eyes following. Red one too. Spiders everywhere. Webs, webs, webs. Bad flesh. Eastern flesh. Bloody tears.

Please don't itch. Don't want that. Still care. Still love.

Eudoxia

It was a mad scribble, ink like fangs dripping venom. Muddled, out-of-order and wild, a word below another or tight against its partner. Blending, blending, dripping. Mad, like the bugs that dwelled in her hair. He barely made out her name. The Tyvian that had charmed the young heir with her voice and words, the foreigner that had swayed him with her kindness and blue eyes, the wife that was his equal, was gone, today a maddened, quivering, wild Brigmore witch.

But she left him one last note, one last warning, and despite his fear of her, he thanked her for that.

It was the last he would get from her, and from then, all that followed was null.

He expected as much.

The Hatters no longer approached him. The dust began to settle, thick waves and feathers on the furniture, with the morning breeze stirring them before they settled again. Move here, settle there, barricade here and burn there. Burn, burn, burn and burn. Water dried up, sun beat down, Arc Pylons crackled and hummed. A Hatter and his friend conversed, grumbling about the Bottle Street Gang or Lizzy Stride, threatening and cursing and throwing whiskey bottles into the dried-up riverbed. Safes were hacked at, refugees turned away, and corpses eaten. Rats strolled in the courtyard, with crows pecking at bits of bread, both squawking or squeaking at the other. They took up the empty voices, replacing clothes with flea-ridden fur.

And they paid in teeth and beaks, not coins or bribes. And they were not discouraged by threats.

Still. Better rats than Hatters or Eels. They at least had mercy.

But she did not have mercy. She had him pinned against the wall, vines nearly cutting off his arms, and thorns piercing his eyes and face. The door was blasted open, the mirrors broken, with the floor sprouting weeds where she walked. Her fingers tapped and scraped and dragged against wood, searching through cabinets and spools and drawers and jewellery boxes for her prize.

He watched her, high-heels and rose-entwined blouse with vines snaking through her skin, and listened to her speak.

"Now...where, oh where is my little gem? I know you have it here, Mr. Dressmaker," she cooed. Her voice was vile, so full of treachery, that he wondered what had painted that streak.

He could not move his mouth to protest. When he said no, that she should get out, she threw him aside, and sealed his mouth shut.

She would not tolerate dissent.

"She's very important to me, you see," she said to him. "Very, very special. And I'm sure that you agree, Mr. Dressmaker, since you were very, very close to her heart."

A vine twisted around his chest to emphasize her point.

"And now she is gone, hiding somewhere, scared and drinking ox milk. They bribed her, those disgusting twins, and they hurt her. Doesn't that make you feel awful?"

Yes. Yes. Of course it did! What could he have done? Corvo had killed the Empress, Hiram Burrows was Regent, and the deadliest plague in living memory was ravaging the city. His wife was mad and gone, sitting next to this equally insane woman, drinking tea and mocking him while he worked. His life's work was in shambles, in tatters and ribbons and shreds, and the art was destroyed. The beauty was gone. The finesse stomped out.

There was no beauty anymore. The last beautiful thing, Lady Emily, was no more, and this mad witch wanted the last piece of her.

And she got what she wanted.

She found it in a small, broken pocket watch. She twirled it in her hands, giggling.

"At last, at last, I have found you!" she squealed. "Now, all will be fine. All will be perfect! And you will be mine."

Art was fragile. It was rare. It could not be plucked from a field like an ear of corn. It had to be honed, possessed, and harvested. Art was like a woman: full of duality, yet complimentary, that was the only source of beauty in the world.

It was the only thing left in this empty, steely, plague-ridden world. And this witch, this haughty and disgusting witch, had taken the last piece of beauty from him, scheming and plotting and casting spells as she held it. The glass was broken, the hair pulled out, and the initials clattering to the floor, a final epitaph for Emily Kaldwin.

And now she, the baker's girl and painter, Delilah Copperspoon, witch of the Brigmore Manor, left him in a plume of smoke and feathers. The vines around him blackened and died, and he fell breathless to the ground. Around him, markings and drawings filled his walls, occult scribbling understood only by witches and their followers. Whatever they said, whatever they promised, he did not understand, but he knew that they could be promising or destructive.

Eudoxia had told him that someone else would come after Delilah, and that they would be the fine line between his future and end.

Eudoxia, in her scribbles, had warned him of this person. She had been afraid.

He was not. Whoever it was, let them come to him, and let them curse that foul witch named Delilah. Whoever it would be, let them rule in her place, and let them represent true beauty.

Let them burn. Let the rats tear them to pieces.

Let the bloody tears fall.

And whoever it was, they would enter his life, a hand in white-leather gloves extended, and ask for a favour.

He did not expect that.

Perhaps luck had been on his side.

"So you're the Dressmaker, huh? Didn't think you were, at first. Sorry for the mess. I always tell them to be careful, but they don't listen all the time."

He cowered on a chair, legs tucked under his arms, watching a horde of spiders crawl around him. A red line marked their backs, and if he peered enough, he could see venom dripping from their fangs.

Black widows. It was bad that Hatters threw bottles at his window to get his attention, but it was worse to have deadly spiders crawl around his floors and turn his home into a mine-field.

He grimaced. "Could you call them back, please?"

"Sure thing, Mister."

The girl stomped her heels. The horde rushed towards her, forming a circle before they disappeared in a black poof. She glanced around for any strays, and when she spotted none, she stepped forward, whistling a tune.

He set his legs down. They stung from a lack of blood. His wrists cracked as he pulled them away, and he rubbed them gently.

Arthritis had not been kind to him. Sewing and threading gradually became harder and harder until he was unable to pin cloth together. Like the plague that had come in waves, over the years, bit by bit, his bones ached and hardened, twisting and curling until he could not pick up a needle.

Much had been lost. When he could sew no more, Lady Emily had cried.

"You won't make any more?" she cried. "I wish I could give you new hands! You really loved making dresses, didn't you?"

Yes, he told her. Yes he did. And he loved making them for her. He loved to make her feel pretty and he loved her laugh as she watched him work.

He adored her, and her adored giving her the garbs of an Empress.

Much had changed. He had gained little, and lost more, but he approached the way he always did: with patience and humility.

No use cursing what couldn't be changed. Not with this girl in front of him.

She had to be no older than nineteen, with mouse-brown hair done in a bun, a simple pin holding it together. A thick black ribbon was tied around her neck, a large, bright topaz in the centre. Her skin was fair, but not pale; it looked to be covered in film in some places. Her dress was tattered, brown and black splotches haphazardly sewn together, with a man's belt tied around her waist. A pair of black thick-heeled boots covered her feet, white scratches criss-crossing up her ankles. Frilled sleeves fell over her hands, held back by watches.

She looked like a mix of courtesan, witch, gutter-girl and wannabe military man all in one. Despite her plain, rugged appearance, the one thing that struck him was her eyes: they were a bright yellow, like the gem around her neck that sucked in everything they saw. Unlike her sisters, who had sickly green skin, she was normal and, if he dared, looked alive. She was patient, calm, and relatively pleasant for a Brigmore witch.

That is, until she sent the spiders. But, she apologized, and she sounded genuinely sorry.

He couldn't complain about that. The Brigmore Witches were not known for their honesty, and he was thankful that at least one was honest.

The witch moved closer, holding a hand out for him. He accepted it.

"I never caught your name," he asked as he shook her hand.

"Oh, that's right. I forgot. Silly me," she laughed weakly. "My name's Sybilla. No need to explain the rest, right?"

"No," he agreed. "I don't think we need to ruin the mood."

She laughed again, louder this time. "Oh, that's good. No hard feelings between us, eh? Alright-y, then. So I guess you want to know why I'm here, right?"

He nodded.

"Alright, so you've got a few problems. Bad to worse. Which one you want to hear first?"

"Neither," he admitted. "I've already got 'worse' all around me. What could you possibly have to say that's worse?"

"Guess you'll be wanting bad first, then. Okay. First, you've got the Hatters and Dead Eels about to go to war –"

" – I already know that," he cut in. "I've known that for years."

" – and you've got Lizzy Stride in jail with her lackey Edgar running the show, and Mr. Hat ready to go poof, that old fart, and the Whalers coming –"

"What?!" he yelled. "The Whalers? What...how –"

"Hey, lemme finish, bud!" she interjected, waggling a finger. "You wanna hear the rest, or not?"

"I'm not sure about that at the moment," he said carefully. "Outsider's eyes...I never thought –"

" – That the Knife of Dunwall would come 'round here, eh?" Sybilla asked. "He's looking for Delilah. I really hate to break the news to him, though. Maybe you can," she said, tilting her head. "He won't believe it, coming from the mouth of a Brigmore witch. But maybe he'll listen to you."

"I...I don't think he will," he said. "Unless the news is really important. Why? What happened?"

Sybilla hissed through her teeth. "Oh...something really bad. Really, really bad. You want the goriest details, or the cleaner ones? I can give both, if you like." She paused. "Actually, I think Daud will want the gory details. Just to make sure."

He stuttered. "I – I suppose. What's happened?"

Sybilla started examining her nails, as if nothing was wrong with what she was saying. Her tone was equally indifferent to her posture.

"Well...Delilah's dead, for starters. Spell went wrong. Not surprising, since she couldn't get any of 'em right. Always pronounced words wrong and got the wrong ingredients. Of course, everyone else stares all wide-eyed at her, but anyone with a thinking mind can see she's full of it. Or was, I should say."

She picked at a cuticle. "Should've seen it. Her face practically melted. Blood and guts everywhere. Couldn't stop screaming and those who were stuck in the room start screaming, too. Started swatting at their hair and faces. Kept yelling how things were crawling in them. Some of 'em whacked their heads on walls and knocked themselves out. Others, well. They went crazy, to put it simply."

She looked up at him, noticing his gaping mouth. "Oh, don't be shocked," she said. "It was going to happen, anyways. I told her," Sybilla shook her head, "I told her that she wasn't right for the spell. Only someone with Eastern blood could do it. And now the entire mansion's in an uproar about what to do with the screaming ones and who's going to succeed. Me? Wanted a break. And I knew you; we've talked before. So I thought 'why not pay a visit?' Didn't think you were home, though. Thought Daud'd be here before me."

"Don't jinx that," he warned. "He could be here any minute."

"Good point," Sybilla said. "Matter of fact, I can hear the Eels and Hatters mingling outside. They'll go quiet when the Whalers come around." She looked towards the window, giving him a brief reprieve.

Somehow, he found his way back to his chair. His legs had turned to liquid, and he found that he could stand on them no longer. He sat, running his hands through his hair, wincing when his wrists cracked, and paused occasionally to look at the young witch's gem.

Eudoxia's warning had borne fruit, and so had his wishes. When Delilah entered his life, she took the last thing precious to him, the last memory of Lady Emily, and left with her cackles, whisking away to her sodden, empty mansion and her witches. She had taken his art and put it through a kiln, scorching the pigments until everything turned to black. Her thorns had stuck in his side, reminding him that he could do nothing. She made it clear, deadly clear, that he was in her way. She made it clear that she wanted Lady Emily for her own purposes. She made it clear that her viciousness had no end.

And she made it clear that she needed to be destroyed. In a twist of luck, or fate if he dared, his wish was granted, but he didn't think that it would come so quickly. It had only been a few months since she visited him, and it had been only weeks since her Sybilla acted as her messenger.

Clearly, Sybilla had other things on her mind, and whatever they were, they seemed to be in her favour. That explained her complete indifference to Delilah's fate and casual attitude towards him.

A thought entered his mind. Had it been her doing? Had she known about this beforehand? He knew next to nothing about her, but still...

Still. Some questions needed to be answered.

He opened his mouth to start, but closed it when Sybilla turned back to him. A small frown was on her face.

"They're here now," she said. "Everyone's gone quiet."

"I take it that's your cue to leave?" he asked.

Sybilla nodded. "You bet. But I won't forget you, Mr. Dressmaker. I'll visit again. And hopefully next time, the Brigmore witches won't be on the wrong side of the tracks." Sybilla gave a salute. "See you next time, Mister. Best of luck on your travels!"

And like her mistress before her, she disappeared in a clash of smoke and feathers.

He wanted to do the same, because minutes after the young witch had fled, the door had opened, and a gruff voice broke his reprieve.

"Who was that?"

Ho-ho, the witch was dead, and now he had to deal with the Knife of Dunwall.

He hoped he would not end up as another name on his ledger.

If he did, at least it would be done in a steady hand, and not in the insane scribbles done by his wife.

That was the least he could ask for.

He could turn the coarsest materials to finery in his hands. He could turn his messiest sketches in the finest clothes seen in ages. With a needle in hand, he could weave anything together, be it quilt or blanket, handkerchief or corset, with utmost skill until it was complete. He would work from dusk to dawn, whether sleeping or awake, and work, bringing beauty to an age that had waved it goodbye. In one move, then two, then three and four and five and more, he could create masterpieces, and awe even the most prudent of nobles.

He had served Pendletons, Boyles and Timsh, all from different sects of nobility, and pleased them all. He had tamed and charmed gang members who smuggled him whiskey for payment. And he had worked for an Empress, and would have worked for two, had the heir lived. But he charmed her, loved her, as the daughter he never had, as did his wife, saddened at her empty womb. Eudoxia sung for her, and he sewed for her, and Lady Emily in return had given him one gift, at her insistence, when he refused all others.

She had given it to him for remembrance, and when it was taken, a part of him went with it, forced to play along with a witch's game; and just as quickly, it had been given back, in shockwaves, each sending him in states of denial and acceptance. He worked, his bones hardened, he waited, his wrists curled, he sewed, his eyes weakened, and he sat, head in his hands, not wanting to tell the most infamous man in the known world what he had heard.

He wasn't sure if he could believe it himself. He was positive the Knife of Dunwall wouldn't believe it unless he saw a corpse, a hair, or something. Something to tell him that yes, the witch was dead, and the Brigmore manor was in uproar.

He needed proof, not just his word. Who would he believe?

"Master?" a voice, a muffled voice, a breathless voice, broke through his thoughts.

"What is it?"

"Something's happened, sir. I think you need to hear it."

There was a break, a pause, a paired gaze at his back.

He did not bother to raise his head.

"Very well. We'll discuss this outside."

And there were sounds, like air being sucked inside out, and he was alone.

Until a knock came from the basement.

He did not lift his head. It was probably from the assassins outside, or from a rat that got into his cupboards. Or, by some rare chance, from a Hatter, if they managed to escape an assassin's blade. No matter what it was, he ignored it, preferring to debate among himself.

The knocks continued. They grew faster as the minutes progressed, and louder, and soon it began to occur to him that it wasn't from the rats or from the assassins outside.

It most certainly wasn't from a Hatter. The knocks were quick, hesitant.

They were not poundings or shoulders rammed against frames.

He stood up, walked to the staircase and down to the backdoor. The knocks stopped, as if the person behind the door heard him approaching. He moved a desk out of the way, a flimsy barricade, and wrapped a hand around the doorknob.

He hesitated. He glanced at a mirror to his left. In it, a wearied, wrinkled, sad face stared back at him. His pale blue eyes were the only youthful thing about him, and has escaped the damage age had brought him. Stubble and nicks from rusted razors dotted his chin, red against a salt-and-pepper beard, covered his long face, and his hair, once auburn, had lines of gray.

He sighed. If Eudoxia had not gone mad, she would have scolded him for his appearance. She would not have let him sunk so low, here in this shell of a town, waiting out a plague that would not go away. She would have shielded him from his depression, calming him at night when he began to unwind; and she would have been there, arms against his, lips to his forehead, singing him to sleep.

Much had been lost.

He doubted if he could find the missing pieces again.

His hand turned. The door opened.

And his legs nearly snapped from the force.

Before him, a young woman stood, either in her early to mid-twenties, clad all in white, with a single gold chain around her neck. Her black hair was done in a tight bun, displaying the sharp contours of her face in full view. But it was what she held that shocked him.

There, wrapped around her legs with a face streaked with old tears, hair in knots and garments browned by stains, was Emily Kaldwin.

"Are you the Dressmaker?" the young woman asked.

He could not find words to say, but he moved his head, inch by inch, to form a nod.

"Oh, thank you. I needed someone to trust. I realize that this is difficult, but please, can you do this favour for me?"

Yes. Yes, of course I can. I can do whatever you want, he thought as he gazed into the woman's eyes.

Green. So green. The East isn't supposed to be green.

He opened his arms. An Easterner had come to his door, begging for a favour, and he obliged. How could he say no?

"Do you have a name?" she asked as she ushered the girl in.

"Charles."

"Charles." Her tongue tumbled over his name, the l and s coming out as a purr. She curtsied. "Thank you, again. You have no idea how much you've helped me."

No. No, you have no idea how much you've helped me. You, you of the Eastern land, of the Eastern blood, who has brought doom on us. You have no idea what you have done.

He bowed for her, took her hand in his, and gently grasped it.

The Doom had come to his doorstep, and he embraced it with open arms.

How could he say no?

This was progress, and she was moving art.

What more could be said?

As soon as I heard "The Dressmaker", I had to write a story. So this came out. A few snippets here and there, tied into one. It's also a bit AU, so I hope you won't mind.

A few OCs are featured, and hopefully, they'll be formally introduced in a future fic I have planned. We'll see.

Et voila! Enjoy!