She sets the fork down. “This is better than the sandwich. I’m surprised you remembered the pickles.”
“I hear everything, Amber.”
Crimson rounds out her cheeks. “I can tell.” She clears her throat. “I, uh... love your necklace. It’s beautiful.” She turns her head slightly, looking at the furniture in the corner of the room. Among them is an antique sewing table with a chair, an oriental room divider, a chest likely full of cloth or other valuables. She sits up. “Is that in working order?”
“What?”
“The machine.”
I blink at her. “I suppose it might be.”
“Can I use it?”
“Everything in this room is at your—”
She sprints from the table. If not for the fact that I know she’s human, I would have assumed her another creature of great feats. She’s in the little chair with her foot on the pedal and her fingers nimbly searching the innards of the machine.
Light splashes across her features—not sunlight, a brilliant realization.
The machine whirls to life.
This might be worse than witnessing her pleasurable chewing. “Am I missing something?”
She huffs with excitement and turns to the chest, propping it open. “Some cloth. Not a lot. But thread, too. Oh—and these—” the ghastly shirt she lifts isn’t even worth describing “—yes, I can do so much with it.”
I’m smacked by reality. As well as my palm to my forehead.
I chortle. “You’re a seamstress. That explains the handmade clothes.”
“Yeah, I’ve just…” She trails off while getting lost in the fabric in her hands. “Can I make you something?”
“Pardon?” I stand, to the relief of the chair, and walk across the room. “You want to...makeme something?”
She hates me. Why would she want to make me something?
My brow creases with suspicion.That might be part of her plan as well.
I keep a respectful distance. Yet despite my stance and my growl of warning, she stands and wraps a tape measure around my waist. “What a huge undertaking. Do you have fabric? Any sewing forms available?”
Two coughs echo from my chest. Another warning. “I can acquire those things easily. What else do you need?”
While she rattles off a medley of fabrics she wants to experiment with, I watch the glow of her eyes, those darling irises seeming to hum with a lifeforce of their own. She’s practically drooling with excitement.
And she’s out of breath when she’s done with her list.
She frowns. “Too much?”
“No. I will remember it all.” I shove my hand into my vest pocket. If sheisup to something, then having her make me an outfit would put that to the test.“I could use a new suit if you don’t mind. There’s a ball approaching.”
“A ball?”
I smirk. “I’ll need my bloodbag to attend, so think about making something for yourself.”
“Fashion?”
“French.”
She shrugs. “I should have guessed.”