The bell above the tailor’s door chimed softly — not with the jangle of cheap brass, but with the careful hum of something tuned for discretion. The kind of sound one made for her. “Miss Lance,” the stranger said, voice low and melodic, touched with an accent that seemed older than Europe itself. “I was told you create clothing worthy of immortality. I should like to test that rumor.” Nyssa’s lips curved. “Stillness comes with practice, habibti. One learns patience when one has… time.” “More than most,” Nyssa replied, eyes lowering to the mortal’s wrist, where a pulse fluttered beneath skin so thin and alive it was almost music. “You sew life into fabric. I have spent a century learning not to take it from the living.”“Like a ghost?” Nyssa offered gently. “Perhaps. Or like someone who remembers sunlight too well.”When Daisy finished measuring, Nyssa turned, catching her hand in both of her own. “You have a gift,” she whispered. “I’ve worn Paris. I’ve worn Milan. But you… you create warmth. You make me feel seen.” “I should like you to come work for me,” Nyssa continued, soft yet deliberate. “At my estate by the sea. You would have your own atelier, your own rooms. Freedom. Safety. Everything you need.” Her gaze lingered — not predatory, but longing. “And perhaps, company.” Nyssa entered her private bathroom — mirrors fogged from a steaming bath she’d drawn before sunset. She slipped from her coat, her corset unlacing with a sigh. Beneath the candlelight, her skin glowed faintly gold, a warmth borrowed from the memory of sunlight. “Move in with me, Daisy Lance,” she murmured to her reflection — a promise half made, half spell. “For the first time in a hundred years, I’d rather live with a heartbeat than without one.”