The draft that followed the door's opening didn't smell like the evening rain or the limestone grit of the ridge. It was cold—a freezing with a unmistakable odor of river clay and stagnant, brackish water.
Bill didn't look up immediately, his needle remaining poised over the blue velvet. But his fingers—those thick, steady hands—suddenly went rigid.
The silver pin between his thumb and forefinger slipped, piercing his own flesh. A tiny, perfect bead of dark crimson blood bloomed on his white linen sleeve.
A man stepped through the threshold, closing the door behind him with a silent, giving pressure that didn't allow the silver bell to ring a second time.
It was Mahito.
He wore a dark, oversized cashmere overcoat that seemed to swallow the amber light of the chandelier, his long, pale hands shoved deep into his pockets. His face was a patchwork of silver, elegant stitches—thin cheekbones, his jaw, and the bridge of his nose. His eyes were fixed directly onto Bill's face with a bright gleam.
Bill's breath caught in his throat. His jaw tightened so hard the bone clicked beneath his weathered skin. Unlike how he was with Quive, he couldn't even muster one bit if such act in front of Mahito.
Standing behind the oak table, Buffalo Bill looked suddenly small as his eyes locked onto the face of the visitor. His tongue felt like a block of salt in his mouth.
Mrs. Gable blinked, turning her head toward the door, her high-society smile faltering as she took in Mahito's frantic, patchwork appearance. The warmth of the shop had dropped ten degrees in an instant. The air felt thick, heavy, and unventilated.
"Curt?" she asked, her voice carrying a sudden, nervous tremor as she looked between the two men. "Is... is everything alright?"
Mahito didn't look at her. He didn't look at the velvet doublets or the expensive French chalk. He simply walked forward, his boots making no sound against the Persian rug, his head tilting to a sharp, unnatural angle.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, Bill," Mahito said, his voice a warm, bright melody that sounded entirely too young, too beautiful for the face it came from. It was a voice filled with an immediate, terrifying comfort. "Or perhaps just an old friend from the river."
Mrs. Gable didn't wait for Bill to answer. The sheer, primal tension vibrating between the two men was enough to override her wealth and her manners. With a hurried movement, she slipped her arms out of the midnight-blue riding coat, leaving it draped over the tailor's dummy, and reached for her own fur wrap on the chair.
"I... I think I should leave the adjustments for tomorrow, Curt," she said quickly, her eyes fixed firmly on the floorboards as she walked past Mahito, taking care not to let her expensive wool coat brush against his dark cashmere.
"Good evening."
She pushed through the outer door, the silver bell letting out a frantic, panicked tinkle-tinkle before the lock clicked shut behind her, leaving the two men entirely alone in the amber glow of the chandelier.
Mahito let out a soft, delighted laugh—a sound like silver coins dropping into a well—as he reached out one pale, stitched hand to trace the edge of the mahogany table.
"Why do you have a James Gumb poster, Bill?" Mahito asked softly, his mismatched eyes sparkling with an enigmatic, dark amusement.
"The name on the registry is Curt, Mr Mahito. The local coroner doesn't ask questions about the name as long as the digital trail is clean."
"Oh, so you do know who I am, how refreshing" mahito sighed as he looked at the poster with the names of cast an crew written on it.
" I might be like this but many merchants who come by do say about you and your unique features". Bill stammered trying to make up a lie but he was seen through at a glance.
Mahito laughed at the cooked up story and couldn't be bothered to read press on the matter.
"Of course," he gave a sarcastic murmured, walking slowly around the table, his fingers lingering on the midnight-blue velvet Mrs. Gable had left behind.
"The local coroner is a very simple creature. He only sees the teeth in the dirt. But I see the shape of the soul, Bill. And yours... yours is so beautifully twisted. It looks like you've be up to a lot in the rain for twenty years."
He stopped directly in front of Bill, his shadow falling across the white linen shirt.
"Tell me," Mahito said, his voice dropping into a smooth, elegant whisper.
" If I Were to give you a job to make me a hat, would you be able to do so without using those skins?."
Bill's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He knew what Mahito was asking for meaning he had been exposed.
"The one to match the dark coat I am wearing? something... supple."