"The right outfit can change you. Permanently."
Wren's POV
The sign above the door read "M. Voss & Sons, Tailors" and Piper was telling me that even though everyone knew there had never been any sons. Just Madame Voss. It was always that way. The bell above the door chimed... a sound like a silver needle dropping on glass, as we stepped inside.
The shop was larger on the inside.
Bolts of fabric lined the walls, but these weren't ordinary textiles. Some shimmered like dragonhide, others breathed, their patterns shifting when I blinked. A spool of thread unwound itself midair, stitching invisible designs into the dusk-heavy light.
Oh my God.
The shop smelled of burnt lavender and starched rebellion, the air thick with floating threads that stitched invisible patterns in the dim light. I barely had time to process the bolts of fabric that shifted colors like mood rings before a figure burst from behind a velvet curtain...
"Ahoy, casualty of conformity!"
A boy... no, a spectacle... stood before us, wearing:
A tricorne pirate hat tilted at a suicidal angle, its brim lined with tiny silver thimbles that chimed when he moved. One butterfly wing glued where his left eyelashes should be, fluttering wildly with each blink. A waistcoat made entirely of patched-together pocket watches, all ticking out of sync.
Piper giggled.
"Piper," he said, voice like smoke and honey. "Bringing me strays again?"
Piper snorted. "Please. You wish I brought you presents."
His gaze slid to me. Amber eyes, flecked with gold.
"Ah," he said. "The new one."
"Felix Dreadmore," he announced, bowing so low his hat nearly toppled. "Apprentice extraordinaire, purveyor of sartorial sabotage, and... oh dear, you've got a very interesting shadow."
"Wren Whitaker."
Felix circled me like a seamstress shark, staring me down like I was prey which was pretty convincing with how his amber eyes shone, I stared back with equal intensity refusing to cower. Recognizing that he grinned like he found something interesting, his measuring tape levitating around my body in lazy figure-eights.
"Arms up! No, down! No... why are limbs so complicated?!" He gasped suddenly, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. "Madame! She's got potential!"
Confused on who he was talking to, I turned.
From the shadows, Madame Voss emerged, I was able to recognize her since Piper gave me a briefing at the door, a woman carved from smoke and strictness, her hair pinned up with bone needles. She eyed me like a wolf eyeing a particularly intriguing lamb.
What's with people in Vermont staring down at people?
"Hmm," she said. The single syllable vibrated with unspeakable power.
Felix leaned in, whispering loudly: "That means she likes you. Probably."
"Stand still," she commanded.
I did, wanting my uniform to be perfect. The tape snaked around my waist, my wrists, my throat, lingering a heartbeat too long at each pulse point. I swallowed.
"Interesting," murmured Madame Voss.
"What is?" I asked, still conscious of the tape lingering a tad bit longer on my throat.
Felix answered instead. "You've got a shadow that doesn't match your shape."
I looked down, surprised. My shadow twisted, just slightly, like it was trying to turn its head toward him. Was I imagining it?
Piper giggled, again. "Oh, she's perfect."
Madame Voss's scissors glinted like a surgeon's scalpel as she tilted her head, studying me with the detached fascination of an entomologist pinning a specimen.
"I have your uniform already made," she murmured. The way she said it... like she'd been expecting me, like she'd measured me long before I walked in... made my skin prickle. "Would you like the standard issue? Or..." Her knuckles brushed a bolt of fabric that shimmered unnaturally, "...something that fits who you truly are?"
The question hung like a noose.
"I can... design my own?" My voice came out hoarse. Despite Piper's rainbow riot of an outfit, some part of me still expected rules. Bars. Cages. Schools were meant to grind you down to fit their mold, not hand you the chisel and say carve yourself.
Felix blinked at me like I'd asked if water was wet. "Vermont doesn't have uniforms. It has costumes." He plucked at his own sleeve, black silk embroidered with creeping vines that moved when you weren't looking directly at them. "What you wear here isn't fabric. It's a statement."
Piper swung her legs from her perch atop a teetering tower of books, her grin sharp enough to draw blood. "Standard issue is for ghosts, darling. And you?" She leaned in, her breath smelling like stolen candy. "You're much too alive to fade into the background."
Ghosts. That word again. My fingers twitched toward the brass knuckles in my pocket.
"I'll take custom," I said too quickly. "Do I..."
"...pay?" Madame Voss laughed, a sound like dry leaves scraping concrete. "No, little matchstick. You'll model for me." Her needle flashed in the firelight. "Consider it... an exchange."
I recoiled. "Excuse me...?"
Felix grabbed my shoulders, steering me toward Piper with a chuckle. "Relax, pyromaniac. She's joking." (He didn't sound certain). "Madame just likes dressing living canvases. Says mannequins don't scream right when she sticks them with pins."
Piper cackled as I choked. "Kidding! ...Mostly."
"When do I get it?" I demanded.
Three voices answered in eerie unison: "Now."
The air left my lungs. "That's impossible."
Piper's smirk deepened. From the shadows, Madame Voss unspooled a measuring tape that gleamed like mercury. "Oh, Wren," she sighed, "you'll learn. Nothing here obeys the rules you know."
And as the tape snaked around my wrists without anyone holding it, I realized...
Vermont didn't just allow individuality.
It fed on it.
And... Everyone here was mad. Or I was too normal.
Madame Voss worked quickly. She didn't use scissors yet, she plucked threads loose with her nails, and the fabric parted like skin. She snapped her fingers. The scissors leapt to her hand, blades clicking like eager teeth.
"Oh God, is this real?"
The words slipped out before I could stop them, my fingers trembling against the fabric that shifted under my touch like a living thing.
Piper, perched on her tower of books like some manic oracle, watched me with glittering eyes. "If this has you shook," she sing-songed, tilting her head, "just wait till you see the rest." A pause. Then, with the glee of someone lighting a fuse: "Might break your pretty little mind. Can't wait to find out."
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, slow, deliberate.
Wait.
There was more?
A cold realization slithered down my spine.
Grandma went here.
What had she seen?
What had this place done to her?
And... God... What would it do to me?
My uniform took shape as Felix cheered, engrossed. No there were three outfits. My breath hitched as a loud gasp escaped my lips.
The first outfit was a high-necked blouse with cuffs that tightened on their own when she rolled her sleeves up. A waistcoat in deep emerald, the lining stitched with tiny, hidden constellations. And a skirt that whispered against the floor, its hem embroidered with words in a language I didn't know... yet.
The second outfit was a high-collared shirt, a corset vest laced with silver thread that seemed to hum when Felix touched and a skirt that darkened in direct sunlight, its hem embroidered with tiny, watchful eyes.
The third outfit was my favorite it was... Me
A high-necked, sleeveless blouse in charcoal silk, reinforced with nearly invisible steel-thread embroidery (because even poets need armor). Tapered trousers in deep oxblood leather, flexible enough for a roundhouse kick but sleek enough for a ballroom assassination. A cropped tailcoat lined with embershot velvet—black at first glance, but when it moved, it rippled like a dying fire.
The dresses were alive moving like it possessed a soul.
Madame Voss stood before me pale, her bone-needle hairpins glinting in the candlelight. "Clothes like these do not obey," she said, voice like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. "They must be claimed."
Madame Voss placed the bone-white needle into my palm. The tip gleamed, too sharp, too eager.
"Your blood," she said, "or theirs."
What the fuck?
The floating garments waited... restless, hungry.
Am I joining a cult in the name of getting an outfit? My hand shook feeling their eyes on me. Am I really doing this? I looked at the three dresses.
But I want them. This was probably normal for them. I shouldn't think too much about it. Since I am going to be here. I rather forge my own path even if it looked crazy.
Half-assed convincing myself I pressed the needle to my thumb, piercing skin before I chickened out. A fat drop of crimson welled, black in the flickering light.
I smeared them on each piece of the three outfit, piercing my thumb more when the blood wasn't enough, wincing. The fabric shuddered, then rippled alive, threads squirming like worms in fresh soil. I stepped back watching the lining blazed scarlet, heat licking up my arms as each of the clothes reared up, their collar flaring like jaws. Eating me. Head to toe. I tried to scream but It didn't work. Not a sound escaped my lips. Pulling me into a vortex of it's creation.
Was I tricked? Will I die because of my greed?
"Clothes like these do not obey,"
"They must be claimed." Madame Voss' voice rang through the haze.
Gritting my teeth, I let out a loud hiss. "You will obey."
The clothes lashed out, wrapping around me like a vice. Pain shot up my body... It was testing me, tasting my fear. Anger bubbled and overflowed "YOU WILL OBEY THIS INSTANT!"
It hesitated. For one terrible second, I couldn't breathe... there was fire in my veins, my lungs, my pulse.. then it cooled, like a metal settling against my skin like a lover's kiss. The flame inside burned steady now, a tiny, loyal sun. Moving through my veins to my wrist. I opened my eyes feeling surreal. There was a small burning, black flame tattoo wrapped around my left wrist.
Piper who had been watching the entire ritual without blinking, her pupils dilated to black pools. Now, she stepped forward, trailing a finger along the tattoo.
If Mom saw this she would kill me.
"They'll protect you now," she murmured. "Unless they decide you're unworthy."
Felix, uncharacteristically pale, handed me a handkerchief stitched with his own initials.
"For the, uh. Dripping." He looked sick pointing at the blood still dripping from my thumb. Did he fear blood? The thought of that made him more endearing. I laughed, taking it. "Don't return it." Yep, I was right.
Madame Voss smirked, tucking the bone needle back into her hair. "Welcome to the family, little Whitaker."
I didn't know what family but I was elated.
As we left, Felix called after us: "Remember! If your sleeves start breathing, that's normal!"
What?
Piper linked arms with me, her grip just shy of painful. "Now you're one of us," she murmured. "Well. Almost."
I didn't really give a fuck. But she didn't need to know.