“We’re Open, Dahling!”

It had been a week of frantic redecoration before Kaliste was satisfied enough with their shop to open it to the public.

Fresh, wine-dark carpeting had been installed. Furniture had been shipped in. The walls were adequately pastel pink’d up. Examples of custom-tailored outfits were out on display, designed for anything from a mermaid to an incomprehensible tentacled horror. Everything was perfect when, five hours ago, they’d turned on the lights and flipped the sign from “CLOSED” to “OPEN”. Five hours. Five hours of pure nothing, fraying their nerves like velcro on a loose cotton blend. Sometimes, the absence of work was a state of bliss all on its own. Sometimes, it was boring. Kaliste personally liked it when there was something for them to fiddle and fix and fuss with.

“UuuuUUUUghHHH.”

By the time the fifth hour of nothingness had begun to tick down, Kaliste had gotten bored of both surfing pintrest and assembling anatomically incorrect creatures out of some leftover bones they had lying around. Just as they had given up hope on getting any customers in on their first day — they probably needed to put more flyers up around the community center — the little silver bells strung up over the door chimed. Oh!

Instantly, Kaliste was all charm. The spare bones were swept up into a counter drawer. They popped on their cheeriest smile and leaned over the counter expectantly. Their highschool stints in customer service had trained them well. “Why hello, dahling! Welcome to the boutique, what do you need?”

“Dresses? Fitted ballgowns? Do I?”

Kaliste snapped up straight at attention. His brain was already at work, thought-organics squelching and sparking with ideas. Looking at the customer, a few quick observations ran through their mind; not very tall nor very short, thin-framed, wintry color palette (pale skin, blue-grey eyes, grey hair).

“Of course I do!” they said, answering their previous question for themselves.

Humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like “Be Prepared”, the half-demon nipped out from behind their reception counter and out into the open of their shop. A design catalogue was already in their immaculately manicured hand. They handed it over to the customer. With nary a word, a button-eyed sparrow decayed down to feathers and bones swooped down from above, a pink ribbon fluttering around its neck and a length of measuring tape in-talon for the necrotailor to take.

“Might as well take measurements while we plan. Any particular colors or designs in mind, dahling?” they trilled. “Tell me everything you have in mind — and I mean everything, no detail too small. Your name might be a welcome detail too. Kaliste, at your service!”

“Mmm, I think I like Tasha best~.”

Kaliste stood her on a little mirror-ringed circular platform in the reception area; a good spot for measuring, and a good spot for modeling. They tapped their chin, thinking a moment as they considered the requests.

It wasn’t unusual for folks around these parts to ask for fashions centuries out of date. After all, Manta Carlos was likely brimming with more immortal folk than anywhere else in the world. Some were from as far back as ancient Greece, and for all Kali knew, there were others older still. It was nice to have a customer who knew just what they wanted — time would tell how fussy she was about the details. They would have to consult a couple of their historian friends to brush up on all the 18th-century trends. “I take it you’re from that era then? Or is it just one of your favorites?”

As they moved to measure (with the help of the little sparrow), they continued to chatter.

“A redhead? Ooh, that complicates the color scheme a little, but no worries, nothing out of my league. My kind of red, dahling, or something more gingery?” they asked, moving on to size up their patron’s arms.

”Less like a maraschino cherry, and more like an autumn leaf, you mean~?” they joked cheerfully.

After jotting down the last of Tasha’s measurements on a little notepad from their pocket, Kaliste rolled up their measuring length with a flick of their wrist, and handed it back to Arie, who flapped away with it. Ekaterina. Russian. Was Natasha a Russian name? Kaliste’s mind flicked to the Marvel Cinematic Universe, specifically to Black Widow. They supposed it was! Well, now they knew what country’s dress to reference, as well as what time period. Fancy, fancy.

Come to think of it, they hadn’t tried such fashion on themselves before. They resolved to take a look.

“Ooh, ball-ready finery sounds lovely, dahling,” they said, smoothly sliding the mirroring into the wall, revealing colorfully-clothed racks behind it. “I suppose I don’t differentiate between ‘special’ and ‘ordinary’ occasions myself — I always dress to impress! Now, would you like to take a look at the fabrics we have? Patrons always love, love, love selecting the weave themselves.”

A pinkish fluster rose to Kaliste’s cheeks as Tasha skimmed through the dresses — meticulously sorted by color.

”Oops!” Chuckling, they slid aside a different mirrored wall, revealing rows of fabric yards, ribbons, and thread spools all stacked high on shelves. “Sorry, wrong mirror. I’m still getting used to the layout of the shop. It’s new here, see. But, yes, those are things I’ve made. Examples to help out indecisive customers!”

It was their physical portfolio, essentially. Ahhh, the smell of adequacy achieved; it smelled like aged cloth.

Remembering what their patron had requested earlier, Kaliste traced a hand down a column of scarlet. “So, what kind of cloth are we looking for? What would you most like? Gauzy, silky, durable, soft, period-accurate..?”