Bloody Fabulous: Stories of Fantasy and Fashion

Page 8

Just as attractions the two were worth far more than they were paid and even a good deal more than they stole. Lilia calculated that around the start of the summer this would no longer be true.
By then Reliquary and the Vampire Revival would be edging their way into the limbo reserved for old fads and she’d have accumulated a nest egg.
Already the store’s customers were largely from New Jersey and outer boroughs. Complaints from the neighbors about the crowds were making her landlord nervous. Building and fire inspectors had put in their appearances and an unmarked car with plainclothes cops sometimes parked across the street.
Lilia sat on a stool and watched it all through a mild haze. The trick she told herself was to keep the nips and bites small and the haze manageable. She remembered the bone-wracking horrors of withdrawal too well to want a repeat.
Just then Larry came in the door looking sloppy and vulnerable. He scanned the customers, all of whom ignored him.
Lilia and he had begun hanging around, talking over old times at CBGB’s and the Mudd Club. She’d bitten him once or twice—playfully, with a bit of vengeance thrown in. Her teeth were hardly fangs.
She wanted to make sure he didn’t blow the money he got in the divorce settlement. While the Kindly Ones had said their good-bys to Marguerite that last time at Savage Design, Lilia had managed to get a couple of glimpses of the investment proposal on their table.
They were involved in the development of a Betty Ford style clinic for vampires on an estate up the Hudson. Kids like Scarlet, Bret, and many others had families able to pay for their recoveries.
Lilia intended to invest Larry’s money. If that worked out she might invest some of her own savings. He crossed the shop towards her and she watched his throat.
Bespoke
Genevieve Valentine
Disease Control had sprayed while Petra was asleep, and her boots kicked up little puffs of pigment as she crunched across the butterfly wings to the shop.
Chronomode (Fine Bespoke Clothing of the Past, the sign read underneath) was the most exclusive Vagabonder boutique in the northern hemisphere. The floors were real date-verified oak, the velvet curtains shipped from Paris in a Chinese junk during the six weeks in ’58 when one of the Vagabonder boys slept with a Wright brother and planes hadn’t been invented.
Simone was already behind the counter arranging buttons by era of origin. Petra hadn’t figured out until her fourth year working there that Simone didn’t live upstairs, and Petra still wasn’t convinced.
As Petra crossed the floor, an oak beam creaked.
Simone looked up and sighed. “Petra, wipe your feet on the mat. That’s what it’s for.”
Petra glanced over her shoulder; behind her was a line of her footprints, mottled purple and blue and gold.
The first client of the day was the heiress to the O’Rourke fortune. Chronomode had a history with the family; the first one was the boy, James, who’d slept with Orville Wright and ruined Simone’s drape delivery par avion. The O’Rourkes had generously paid for shipment by junk, and one of the plugs they sent back with James was able to fix things so that the historic flight was only two weeks late. Some stamps became very collectible, and the O’Rourkes became loyal clients of Simone’s.
They gave a Vagabonding to each of their children as 21st birthday presents. Of course, you had to be twenty-five before you were allowed to Bore back in time, but somehow exceptions were always made for O’Rourkes, who had to fit a lot of living into notoriously short life spans.
Simone escorted Fantasy O’Rourke personally to the center of the shop, a low dais with a three-frame mirror. The curtains in the windows were already closed by request; the O’Rourkes liked to maintain an alluring air of secrecy they could pass off as discretion.
“Ms. O’Rourke, it’s a pleasure to have you with us,” said Simone. Her hands, clasped behind her back, just skimmed the hem of her black jacket.
Never cut a jacket too long, Simone told Petra her first day. It’s the first sign of an amateur.
“Of course,” said Ms. O’Rourke. “I haven’t decided on a destination, you know. I thought maybe Victorian England.”
From behind the counter, Petra rolled her eyes. Everyone wanted Victorian England.
Simone said, “Excellent choice, Ms. O’Rourke.”
“On the other hand, I saw a historian the other day in the listings who specializes in 18th-century Japan. He was delicious.” She smiled. “A little temporary surgery, a trip to Kyoto’s geisha district. What would I look like then?”
“A vision,” said Simone through closed teeth.
Petra had worked at a tailor downtown for three years after her apprenticeship there was over. She couldn’t manage better, and had no hopes.
Simone came in two days after a calf-length black pencil skirt had gone out (some pleats under the knee needed mending).
Her gloves were black wool embroidered with black silk thread. Petra couldn’t see anything but the gloves around the vast and smoky sewing machine that filled the tiny closet where she worked, but she knew at once it was the woman who belonged to the trim black skirt.
“You should be working in my shop,” said Simone. “I offer superior conditions.”
Petra looked over the top of the rattling machine. “You think?”
“You can leave the attitude here,” said Simone, and went to the front of the shop to wait.
Simone showed Petra her back office (nothing but space and light and chrome), the image library, the labeled bolts of cloth—1300, 1570, China, Flanders, Rome.
“What’s the name?” Petra asked finally.
“Chronomode,” Simone said, and waited for Petra’s exclamation of awe. When none came, she frowned. “I have a job for you,” she continued, and walked to the table, tapping the wood with one finger. “See what’s left to do. I want it by morning, so there’s time to fix any mistakes.”
The lithograph was a late 19th-century evening gown, nothing but pleats, and Petra pulled the fabrics from the library with shaking hands.
Simone came in the next day, tore out the hem, and sewed it again by hand before she handed it over to the client.
Later Petra ventured, “So you’re unhappy with the quality of my work.”
Simone looked up from a Byzantine dalmatic she was sewing with a bone needle. “Happiness is not the issue,” she said, as though Petra was a simpleton. “Perfection is.”
That was the year the mice disappeared.
Martin Spatz, the actor, had gone Vagabonding in 8,000 BC and killed a wild dog that was about to attack him. (It was a blatant violation of the rules—you had to be prepared to die in the past, that was the first thing you signed on the contract. He went to jail over it. They trimmed two years off because he used a stick, and not the pistol he’d brought with him.)
No one could find a direct connection between the dog and the mice, but people speculated. People were still speculating, even though the mice were long dead.
It was only some plants left, and butterflies. By the next year the butterflies were swarming enough to block out the summer sun, and Disease Control began to intervene.
The slow, steady disappearance of plants and animals was the only lasting problem from all the Vagabonding. Plugs were more loyal to their mission than the people who employed them, and if someone had to die in the line of work they were usually happy to do it. If they died, glory; if they lived, money.
Petra measured a plug once (German Renaissance, which seemed a pointless place to visit, but Simone never questioned the customers). He didn’t say a word for the first hour. Then he said, “The cuffs go two inches past the wrist, not one and a half.”
“Don’t hurt yourself talking,” Petra said. “Hold out your arm, please.”
The client came back the next year with a yen for Colonial America. He brought two different plugs with him.
Petra asked, “What happened to the others?”
“They did their jobs,” the client said, turned to Simone. “Now, Miss Cardew, I was thinking I’d like to be a British commander. What do you think of that?”
“I would recommend civilian life,” Simone said. “You’ll find the Bore committee a little strict as regards impersonating the military.”
When Petra was very young she’d taken her mother’s sewing machine apart and put it back together. After that it didn’t squeak, and Petra and her long thin fingers were sent to the tailor’s place downtown for apprenticeship.
“At least you don’t have any bad habits to undo,” Simone had said the first week, dropping The Dressmaker’s Encyclopaedia 1890 on Petra’s work table. “Though it would behoove you to be a little ashamed of your ignorance. Why—” Simone looked away and blew air through her teeth. “Why do this if you don’t respect it?”
“Don’t ask me—I liked engines,” Petra said, opened the book with a thump.
Ms. O’Rourke decided at last on an era (18th-century Kyoto, so the historian must have been really good-looking after all), and Simone insisted on several planning sessions before the staff was even brought in for dressing.