She had hoped for a place with someone big, really big; someone who was so ultrahip that even her stuff would look a little frumpy by comparison.
It was then that her course had taken a marked quirk to the left.
She’d been pawing through an upscale antique store’s selection of vintage fashions, on the lookout for the elusive and the unusual and muttering to herself about how she would have designed the gowns differently, when she’d felt the imperious tap of a bony finger on her shoulder.
“Are you a seamstress, dear?”
The term alone should have sent up a red flag, but Jane had been so thrilled that someone might think her something akin to a designer that she’d bobbed her head obediently and waited breathlessly for some other gem of recognition. And when she’d been offered a place at Miss Witherspoon’s salon, she’d leaped at the chance.
Little had she known that she would wind up designing wedding gowns for a woman who made Oliver Twist’s Fagan look like a philanthropist. And not only was she designing all those eighteenth-century wedding gowns, she was watching Miss Witherspoon’s niece take credit for it. It was pitiful.
Jane planned to leave. She’d been planning to leave for almost three years, but what with one thing and another—mostly rent and food—she found herself staying. After all, she was actually doing a great deal of designing, and that wasn’t something she could turn her back on lightly.
So she invested a lot of time trying to ignore the fact that she was basically an indentured servant. That invariably led to questions about where her Prince Charming was hiding his white horse. Surely there was someone out there who would rescue her from the acres of tulle she’d gotten herself lost in.
She sighed and turned her mind away from the rainbow of colors she could be working with to more productive thoughts—such as if hari-kari were possible with dressmaker’s pins. Before she could do any experimenting, the phone rang, making her jump. She was, of course, the only one left at the shop, having been assigned the task of closing up for the three-day weekend. She picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Jane, dear,” Miss Witherspoon said, sounding rushed, “just a few last-minute things before we visit yet another royal residence. So many beautiful gowns preserved for the discriminating eye, you know. Remember that we’ll be hopping back over the Pond on Tuesday.”
Yeah, on the Concorde, Jane thought with a scowl.
“Europe has given Alexis such glorious design inspiration . . .”
Not even Europe will improve her stick figures, Jane thought with a grumble.
“. . . Christy and Naomi will be in early next week, so you’ll want to be sure to remain behind the scenes. Alexis will do the showing of the gowns, of course, for we all know she has the beauty to complement them while you do not!”
Jane had no reply for that, so she merely rested her chin on her fist and thought Gloomy Thoughts about her less-than-arresting face.
“Oh, and one last thing, dear. I want you to check in the workroom immediately. There was a rat heard frolicking about there this afternoon.”
Rats. What else? Jane put the receiver back in its cradle, her head down on her desk, and sighed. Miss Witherspoon never would have asked Alexis to check out a rat rumor. Alexis wouldn’t have been any good at rat patrol anyway. Alexis was from California. If they had rats, which Jane doubted they did in Alexis’s neck of the woods, they were no doubt tanned, relaxed, and unaggressive. Alexis was not up to the New York rat, a hearty, belligerent beast. Jane, however, was unafraid.
At least that’s what she told herself as she picked up a yardstick and headed for the back room.
She opened the door, flicked on the light, and spared a brief moment to look at her creations hanging so perfectly on the long racks against the wall. Every pearl in place, every tuck just so, every drop of lace dripping as if it had been poured that way. Jane had to admit that even though she wasn’t all that fond of bridal wear, the gowns were beautiful. She had taken the styles of the period and put as much of her personal stamp on them as she could get away with. It wasn’t much more than an unexpected tuck here or an unusual bit of lace there, but at least it was something.
It was then that she was distracted by the sound of crunching.
She glanced down and saw a trail of junk food wrappers leading over to the corner.
And she muffled a squeak of fright.
Well, it was obvious that the rat wasn’t dining on satin, so what was the use of chasing him out right then? Jane let the benevolence of the moment wash over her as she quickly retreated from the room. She left the light on and shut the door. Maybe the light would convince the rat that he’d wandered into the wrong place and he would abandon his designs on the workroom.
That sounded much better than trying to convince him to leave by means of a flimsy stick.
She quickly packed up her bag, put on her sneakers with the rainbow shoelaces—not chic maybe, but definitely colorful—and hurried out into the Manhattan evening. The colors and smells of the twentieth century assaulted her, assuring her that she wasn’t trapped in a Victorian sweatshop. She took a deep breath, slung her bag over her shoulder, and set off down the street to her sublet, thoughts of rats temporarily forgotten.
BY THE TIME she reached her building, she was sweating and cross. She trudged up three flights of stairs, stood outside her door until her breath caught back up with her, then shoved her key into the lock and welcomed herself home to her glorified attic apartment. She turned on the lights, then closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, letting her bag slide to the floor. A quick survey of her surroundings told her she was indeed in the black-and-white space she had created for herself upon her arrival in New York. She had been convinced a monochromatic scheme was perfectly in keeping with her chic, designer self and would do nothing but enhance her creativity.
Lately she had begun to have her doubts that this was good for her state of mind.
She pushed away from the door with a sigh and headed toward her bedroom to exchange her requisite working uniform of anything black—heaven forbid we should compete with the brides, dear!—to something at least in a comforting sweatsuity shade of gray. She usually found her bedroom, with all the purity of its white contents, soothing. Today it just felt sterile.
Jane quickly took stock of what she’d consumed that day, decided that the M&M’s had pushed her over the edge, and vowed with a solemn crossing of her heart to stay away from the vending machine at some point in the very near future. Perhaps before she turned forty, in another decade or so.
There was one deviation from her color scheme and that was the hope chest her parents had insisted she take with her. It was a beautiful, rich cherry and it sat under her tiny window and beckoned to her with all the subtlety of a lighthouse beam at close range. Jane knew what was in the trunk.
She was tempted.
But she also knew where looking would lead, so she turned sharply away and rummaged in her dresser for something appropriate for her aprez work Friday night activity of watching an old movie.
Once she’d shed her Witherspoon image for something more comfortable, she made herself a snack and settled down with the remote. She couldn’t afford cable, but the public broadcasting system always had something useful on Friday nights.
“Great,” she groused, tuning in and getting ready to tune out. “Sheep.”
Ah, but it was sheep in Scotland and that was enough to keep her thumb off the remote. Scotland and all those sheep who worked so hard to donate all that wool. Jane’s fingers itched at the very thought of it. Truth be told—and it was something she didn’t tell anyone at work lest it ruin her image as a user of already woven goods only—put a pair of knitting needles in her hands and she could work miracles.
And yarn came in such a rainbow of colors.
She watched until she knew more than she wanted to about sheep and their habits, then she turned off the TV and crawled into bed.
And she dreamed of Scottish sheep.
Chapter Two
And back in the workroom ...
LIFTED HIS sword and plucked from the end another of the bags of food he had gathered. He broke open the outer coating and reached inside for some of the crunchy inner meat. While he ate, he looked at the words engraved upon the outside of the pouch. Cheetos. He nibbled, then looked with concern at the orange residue left upon his fingers. It only added to the acute alarm he felt. He continued to chew, certain he would need whatever nourishment he could have, and contemplated the direness of his situation. He was dead, obviously, for he was surely no longer in the Fergusson’s pit. It concerned him, however, how much his mortal frame still pained him. He’d been certain he would have shed his body on his trip to the afterlife. But possess it he still did, and an uncomfortable thing it was indeed.
He looked about him. He was in a chamber full of white gowns. He hadn’t seen them at first, as he had woken to complete darkness. Then a faint light had forced its way through a window, leaving him with the knowledge that he was no longer in the Fergusson’s keep. He’d heaved himself to his feet in a desperate search for food and water.
It was then he’d espied the little box full of pouches. Drink he’d found there too, in little boxes and tasting of strange and exotic flavors. The drink he had enjoyed. The food, less so.
He’d staggered back to his corner and settled down for a rest when a light so bright it burned his eyes blazed to life before him. He’d been so stunned, he hadn’t moved at first.
Heaven? he had wondered. Or perhaps a chamber assigned to those who awaited their journey to Hell. He couldn’t be certain, but he strongly suspected that he had somehow, while being out of his head with weariness, escaped the Fergusson’s guards and landed himself in a chamber containing gowns for future angels. There were, after all, all those garments in white to consider. And those little black machines on the tables. Ian hadn’t dared touch them, but he’d read the words inscribed on them easily enough. Singer. If that didn’t cause a body to think of singing angels, he surely didn’t know what would.
But there had been no angels roaming about fingering the gowns so Ian had been left to ponder other alternatives. He’d eventually come to the conclusion that he wasn’t in either Heaven or Hell, he was in Limbo, that horrible place between the two. The food alone should have told him as much. He looked about him at the remains of what he’d consumed. Cheetos, Milky Way, Life Savers—and aye, he could have used those in truth—all in colors he hardly recognized and tastes he’d never before set his tongue to. All in all, he couldn’t help but wish heartily that he were back in Scotland braving the fare at his clan’s table.
Then another more disturbing thought occurred to him. Perhaps the powers that were deciding his fate were still struggling to make up their minds about him.
He looked about him and frowned at the leavings scattered here and there. He’d had to remove the slippery outer coatings of the food—once he’d discovered those outer shells weren’t fit to eat, that is. Perhaps’twould make a better impression on Saint Peter’s gate guards if Ian tidied up his surroundings. He struggled to his feet, using his sword to help him get there, then merely leaned upon his sword and caught his breath. Never mind where he was; what he needed was a decent meal and a fortnight’s rest to recover from his stay in the Fergusson’s keep.
Ian started to bend down to see to his clutter when a door at the far end of the chamber opened. He froze, afeared to draw attention to himself when he was looking less than his best.
A demon walked in. It could be nothing else. It was dressed all in black, its hair pulled up and pinned to its head with half a dozen sticks of wood. Ian spared a thought about what kind of pain that must have caused the beastie, then realized that it likely felt no pain. Dwelling in such a place as this would surely numb the senses.
The creature looked over the angels’ gowns, thumbing through them with the air of one familiar with such things. The gowns hung on shiny poles in a most magical manner and Ian spared a bit of appreciation for such a finely wrought manner of hanging the clothing. Perhaps Limbo was a more advanced place than he’d thought at first.
The demon finished with its work, then turned his way. He watched its eyes roam over the chamber, then watched those eyes widen. The shebeastie, and he could now divine that it was a she and not a he, opened its mouth to speak—but no sound issued forth. Ian took the opportunity to assess his opponent before she spewed forth things he likely wouldn’t care to hear.
Her face was unremarkable, but fair enough, though Ian wasn’t of a mind to examine her too closely. She was passing skinny. Perhaps she was only allowed to make a meal of her victims on an occasional basis. Ian was almost curious enough to ask her, but he was interrupted by the low whine that suddenly came from her. It started out softly enough, then increased in volume until it became a most ear-splitting shriek. Ian threw his Cheeto-encrusted fingers up over his ears until the beastie’s mouth closed. Then he hesitantly took his hands down. The beastie blinked, shook her head, then blinked again.
“Only in New York,” she said in a particularly garbled tone. “This could only happen in New York.”
She repeated that as she turned and left the chamber by the door Ian hadn’t dared open before.
New York? Was that what they called the place, then? Ian reached up to scratch his chin over that piece of news, then realized how unkempt he must have appeared to her. Then a more disturbing thought occurred to him. What if she had gone to tell the Deciders of His Fate about his less-than-pleasing appearance? By the saints, with the way he looked at present, the very last place they would think to send him was up the path to the Pearly Gates.
He looked about him frantically for aid. He had been strengthened somewhat by the ghoulish fare and felt certain that he had the vigor to make himself more presentable. Perhaps if he looked the part of an angel, they might mistake him for one and send him along on his way.
’Twas nothing short of a miracle what he was surrounded by.
Angel gowns.
He set his sword aside, peeled off his plaid and shirt, and set to work looking for something in his size.
JANE WALKED INTO her office, very proud of herself that she was still breathing normally. It wasn’t every day that a woman saw a filthy, sword-bearing, bekilted man six inches taller than she loitering in her workroom. Her hand was very steady as she reached for the phone and dialed 91—
Her finger hovered over the last number. What was she going to tell the cops anyway—hey, there’s a grubby guy standing in the middle of junk food wrappers in the room down the hall? For all she knew, they would come get her and haul her away. She slowly set down the receiver and took stock of the situation.
It was the Saturday before Memorial Day and given the fact that Miss Witherspoon had given the entire staff the long holiday off—except Jane, of course—it was a safe bet that she would be the only one in the salon until Tuesday.
Alone with a crusted-over Swamp Thing.
Jane looked around her for a weapon. Damn, nothing but a handful of dressmaker’s pins—and she had already determined their lack of usefulness in inflicting fatal wounds. It looked as if her only option was to beat a hasty retreat and face the remains of the mess on Tuesday with everyone else.
Her hand hadn’t gone halfway to her bag before she realized that wasn’t an option either. The best gowns in that workroom were one-of-a-kind creations that she had put together herself. She had spent hours rummaging through estate sales, garage sales, and dusty antique shops to find the unique bits and pieces that went into making her additions to the salon truly special. Could she really allow those creations to be ruined because she’d been too cowardly to face the man nesting in the workroom? Besides, he really hadn’t looked too steady on his feet. Maybe he needed help.
She squelched the Florence Nightingale thoughts before they could bedazzle her common sense, then gathered up what she hoped was defense enough: a
Bic pen and a pair of very long, very sharp dressmaker shears.
“Here goes nothing,” she muttered as she left her office and tiptoed down the hallway to the workroom.
She stopped outside the door and put her ear to it. Damned old metal things. Where was a good old-fashioned hollow core wooden door when a girl needed one? With one last deep breath, she flung open the door and stepped inside.
Swamp Thing squeaked in surprise and spun around to face her, his skirts rustling loudly in the sudden silence. Jane would have squeaked as well but she was too dumbfounded by what she was seeing.
He was wearing the most modern of their gowns, a nineteenth-century Southern Belle special. It was an off-the-shoulder number with dozens of hand-placed pearls and enough lace encrusting the bodice to turn the upper half of the dress into the stiffest noncorseted creation ever worn by anyone who’d ever said “y’all.”
Well, at least he wasn’t toting the matching parasol.
Jane felt her mouth working, but she found that all sound refused to come out. There was a man in her workroom wearing a bridal gown. It was too small by several sizes, the hem hitting him midcalf. His relatively hairy arms poked out at an awkward angle through the sleeve holes and the neckline barely reached midsternum. Jane decided right then that men with any amount of body hair at all were not meant for shoulderless, sleeveless bridal fashions.
And then Swamp Thing spoke.
“Would ye perrrchance be one of Saint Peterrr’s ilk,” he began, sounding rather nervous, “or are ye belonging to the . . . errrr . . . Deevil’s minions?”
His r’s rolled so long and so hard, they almost knocked her down. It occurred to her that he was a Scot, which explained what had looked like a kilt before, but it didn’t explain what he was doing in Miss Witherspoon’s shop.