Burn Before Reading(46)

"Ah, come into the kitchen!" Seamus poked his head around the entryway. "I've made some tea, and we can take your measurements."

I looked at Wolf, but he only motioned for me to go first. Bastard. He knew I couldn't refuse such a nice old man. I wandered into the kitchen and Seamus sat me down at the small table, pouring me a cup of tea.

"Peppermint!" He exclaimed, pushing his little glasses farther up his nose. "Now then, what are you - a ten? Nine at the waist?" Wolf walked in, and Seamus shooed him out. "What are you doing in here? A lady only truthfully tells a tailor her size - get out!"

I laughed at the utterly bewildered expression on Wolf's face as he walked away. Seamus turned to me, hands on his hips.

"Now then, let's hear it again, miss...?"

"Bee," I said.

"Miss Bee," He nodded. "I'll need your waist size if I'm to get you a serviceable set of clothes."

"Uh, twelve. I think."

Seamus frowned, then pulled a measuring tape out of seemingly nowhere. "If you'd please, Miss Bee. Stand for me. I hope you don't mind if I measure you."

"N-Not at all."

He puttered around me with the measuring tape, taking my shoulders, my sides. I did get a little skittish when he measured the inside of my legs, but I just shut my eyes and tried to pretend I was Wolf - stoic and unmoving. Finally, Seamus straightened and smiled at me.

"You're so much easier to measure than that boy out there. He hates it all. It's just as I thought - you're nowhere near a size twelve, dear."

"But - that's my jean size."

"For mass production, of course it is. But a properly fitted pant on you would be a ten, at the most."

"Mr. Seamus," I sighed. "I don't want to take up too much of your time. Do you just have, like, an extra pair of sweatpants lying around?" I fished around in my wallet and came up with a ten. "Ten is all I have, but I can pay you back the rest later."

Seamus looked down at the ten I was offering, and a smile creased his eyes. "Oh no, sweatpants? For a girl as pretty as yourself? No, I'm afraid that won't do. It's a matter of artisan pride now, you understand."

"I...don't think I do. Um. Understand."

He motioned for me to follow him. Confused, I did. He led me down the hall to a larger room, filled to the brim with gorgeous bolts of fabric and smooth planes of leather and lace. A massive, hefty-looking sewing machine sat on a desk in the back, all sorts of needles and darning tools and protractors hanging from the walls. Seamus fiddled with a pile of clothes, searching for something.

"I've known the Blackthorn boys since they were babies," He grunted, pulling a gray shirt out. He shook his head at it, then threw it back and dived into the pile again. "I've known their father since he was a baby, since his father immigrated to the United States. We came to Washington together, me from Wales, him from Turkey. Aha, there it is! No, that's the velvet. Where did I put -"

Seamus pulled out a piece of green fabric. "Which do you like better, Miss Bee - skirts or dresses?"

"Seriously, just pants will be fine."

"Miss Bee, please," Seamus pleaded. "I've been sewing suits and boys' clothes for the Blackthorns for so long. If you'd let me attempt a dress, I'd be over the moon."

I expelled a breath. "Okay. Fine. But I'm paying you back for it. Full price."

Seamus chuckled. "Of course, dear. Of course. Now then, let us begin."

He pulled bolt after bolt of fabric down from the shelves, offering me colors and patterns I'd only seen in magazines - delicate gold-stitched things, blue shiny fabric, stuff with so many sequins on it shimmered like mermaid scales. I was overwhelmed with color and texture as Seamus explained to me each fabric's traits. By the time he asked me to wait in the living room for him to finish, I felt like I'd been sucked up and spit out of a whirlwind. I made my way to the living room, only to see Wolf sitting on the couch, one knee over the other, his leather gloves in his hands as he checked his phone. The sun played over his raven-dark hair, catching his jade eyes as he looked up.

"You survived," He said.

"You sound impressed," I collapsed on a nearby armchair.

"When I was five, my dad took me here, and Seamus showed me his collection. I came out crying."

I smothered a laugh. "Oh yeah? How did Burn and Fitz do, then?"

"Burn just stood there and took it like he always does. Seamus calls him the 'perfect mannequin'. You can guess how much Fitz likes Seamus."

"Loads," I offered. Wolf shot me a lopsided smirk, and being on the receiving end of it made my breath catch. It was weird, but not unpleasant, to see him amused instead of irritated with me.

"Truckloads."

We sat in silence, the gentle ticking of a grandfather clock the only noise that dared to exist. Questions gnawed at me, but one louder than the rest.

"Why did you come to my house?" I asked. Wolf shifted on the couch, almost - nervously? But that couldn't be right. Wolfgang Blackthorn doesn't get nervous.

"I was coming to apologize," He said. "I was....harsh, that night at the party."

I wove my fingers together in an effort to look busy. "And tipsy, apparently."