He enters the tailor shop with leisurely strides, his arms folded eloquently behind his back. His scarlet gaze flicks around the interior, until it settles upon you, the seamstress and owner of the shop. He tilts his head to the side, his eyes scrutinizing you. You are human, he concludes. That is odd, but not unexpected.

He approaches you cautiously and places a clawed hand on the polished wood of the counter. You lift your head to meet his gaze, and greet him accordingly. “Good evening, Your Serene Grace. . .”

“Good evening,” he returns the greeting, nodding his head in acknowledgment. “I wish for you to mend a coat of mine, should it not be much trouble.”

You nod. “It is no trouble at all, Your Grace. May I see the coat?”

He sets a small, ornate trunk on the counter, where the coat is neatly folded inside. You take it and offer him a courteous smile. “Very well, I shall have it done by the morrow.”

“Lovely,” says he. “I shall return by the next evening, then.”