Alice C. Lynch. Alice Olson Lynch. Alice…

Ah, there she was.

His pupil flared as the picture slid into view on his phone’s screen. Alice’s facebook profile gradually scrolled under the touch of his thumb, revealing her photographs, friends, interests. All the little things that made humans human, now conveniently reduced into a high accessible webpage.

In the dark of his rundown flat, the smartphone’s dim blue glow provided the only light in the room, illuminating the edges of his face. He was reclined on the remains of an old leather chaise, inhaling the smell of must and raw wood while mice scampered and scratched inside the walls. Outside he could hear the sounds of daily life, of cars rumbling past and clipped small talk between strangers at the street cart stand at the end of the block.

She wasn’t half bad. A mousey thing in outdated fashions, charmingly Victorian, though with a little more flair than anyone dared show in those days. A woman showing her corset was liable to be charged with indecent exposure, but recent retro fashions did expand creative on the idea. She seemed fixated on it.

So this was there Alasdair’s bloodline had ended up. Locally and within grabbing distance, anyway. Fitting. Yves would have loved her. Pathetic sod.

Irrelevant, it wasn’t her he was interested in. Only her heritage and her name.

He shut off his phone and laid his head back in the dark, afforded to him by the boarded windows and patched holes in the wall. Naught left to do in the moment but wait. Come nightfall, he would finally get somewhere after all this effort.

---

“Wait!”

A tall silhouette moved beneath the haloes of yellow streetlamps, jogging from around the corner. He was reflected in the puddles in the cracks of the sidewalk, collected from the afternoon rain—which was likely to reprise itself, given the weight of the air and the murky cloudcover overhead.

The tailor’s shop was a quaint little shop nestled between others of its kind along a classical street, the sort lined with rustic old buildings with gothic windows, black, steepled roofs, and discolored brick facades. One of the last bastions for a dwindling trade in this era of mass production.

Sasha Dmitriyev appreciated it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to see a proper tailor.

But now she was closing up shop, stopping just to lock the outer door. Alice Lynch, matching her profile picture. Alice Lynch, in fashions as retrograde as her profession. Alice Lynch, the key to Alasdair’s resurrection.

Sasha drew within speaking distance, a young man not too young in a long brown coat. He donned buttoned shirt beneath, cinched with a belt that was tied in lieu of a modern buckle. A look seldom seen these days.

Something long and black draped over one arm.

“You’re closed? Already?” Sasha gasped as he drew near. He glanched at his watch, flicking back his cuff. It was half past nine. Of course the shop was closed. Most of these humble little shops weren’t even open past six. “Look, I need this coat repaired by tomorrow. It will only take a minute.”

He held his arm, displaying an old tailcoat. Frayed threads from a dramatic tear along the inner seam were evident. Sasha wondered if perhaps he wasn’t laying it on a little too thick to garner Alice’s interest. No, he thought. Everyone is too desperate for attention to be wary these days.

“Can you help? Please?”

Alice had just been locking up. Normally she would have liked to live just above the place, and save a bit on her rent. But alas, the upper floors were in enough disarray with age that to make it habitable enough for the Council to deem it live-able... She sighed, doing a last view over of her set up. Hoping she wasn't forgetting anything. If she had, she decided after a few long minutes, it would be upstairs in the single room she was able to use without having someone shove information about how out of date wiring and heating was some sort of danger. Of course it probably was dangerous, but she just was sick of it and the exhorted fees that it would take to fix the blasted problems!

She scooped up the maroon velvet purse that matched her overcoat. It was a lovely thing. Trimmed with a deep green and not the classic black or foolish white. White and red, Alice sighed as she cursed a jolly old man who liked to hand out toys. He had ruined a simple color palette! Peering at the darken streets and satisfied all was well, she dung about in her purse for the set keys to lock the door behind her as she pulled it shut. A faint, and hard, click put stop to that as her head snapped up. It couldn't be, not again! Turning about she stared at the door dumbly for a moment. Then furiously dung through her purse, becoming more and more desperate. Pulling out one of her many set of keys she tried it on the door, only to mutter darkly a try another. Shoulders slumping in defeat she had started to turn away, thinking to return to the problem in the morning. Hearing a slight commotion down the street. She turned, looking towards the man who looked utterly distraught as she felt.

And holding a sin.

"What on earth happened to you!" Alice gasped, a look of pure horror and a slight scolding tone crossing into her voice as she scooped the abused tailcoat right up. "Do you know nothing of coats!? You do this lad no good lugging him about the streets without any protection! What about mud, snow, rain! Oh, he's going to be right filthy!" Her raven hair, coming out of the messy bun swayed back and forth as she muttered darkly. "No wonder he's in such condition." Green eyes leveled at the tall stranger in accusation, as if the condition of the coat was his fault. "I'll see what I can do." She sighed, still clucking her tongue at the coat. Figuring what she had at home, and if she really would need to get into the shop for anything. There was a benefit for up-keeping your own clothes.

“Pardon?” Sasha leaned back, put off guard by the question. “To me? Nothing outrageous, just…”

He abandoned the thought. It took him a moment to realize that Alice wasn’t asking about what happened to him. She was talking to the coat. As she went on, she had even ascribed a gender to it. A piece of fabric.

It took a few seconds for Sasha to realign himself.

“Snow,” he uttered at last. “It’s September.”

Well, at least the approach was effective, albeit unintentionally thoroughly. All he’d wanted was his foot in the door. Space to ask a few questions and ascertain her identity without doubt before he moved on to the next phase. Ah, what did it matter? He wasn’t about to look a gifthorse in the mouth.

“It’s only a tear,” Sasha continued, not sure whether he was attempting to console the girl or rein her back into reality, where humans lived and not coats. “It can be mended. Hopefully?” He thumbed toward the tailor shop. “So, are we to go back in, or…?” Foot in the door, foot in the door. “See, I don’t quite feel comfortable leaving at this point. You’re looking at me like I just smothered a kitten. I’m rather afraid you’ll abscond with my clothing to rescue it from me.”

The brightly colored flank of a patrol car caught the corner of Sasha’s eye, which he watched in periphery for a hot minute. There was nothing he really had to fear from policemen. He was only having a conversation. Still, the guilty conscience often fears ill-intentions can be read in the skin.

“My name is Sasha,” he extended. “If I haven’t thoroughly offended you with my misfortune.”

At the mention of snow, Alice blinked and reddened slightly. She had the nasty habit of forgetting herself in her work and often bemoaning over the damage to a outfit. Giving a slight cough to convert her glare into something aside from the slightly guilty frown. Preferably a smile, a nice sweet smile. This gentleman was a customer after all and they did pay her bills.

"I apologize about that. I get a tad..." She frowned for a second looking for the right word. "Well, caught up in my work at times." It was a true enough fact. There had been times on close deadlines she had forgone her home to sleep in the shop simply because she was working on some design or other. "And, no! Not at all. I hope I haven't offended you with my manners." Or lack thereof. "But um... I'm having a tad difficulty with the door. If you could possibly stop by in the morning for it? It'll be done by then." Alice offered the compromise, knowning
she could very well get the work down and into the shop. Even if she had to break in. It wouldn't be the first time after all.

She felt her cheeks redden even more as he wondered if she would abscond with the poor coat! As if. "It wouldn't be very professional if I did!" She raised a eloquent brow. "Asides, what good would I do with this handsome thing? I cannot wear it." Giving a cheery smile, she chuckled slightly. "My, my. It'd swallow me whole! No, I promise not to abscond with it. Clothes are meant to be worn and make people look good. Such any good tailor will tell you, Mister Sasha."

"Not to worry," Sasha said with a gentle smile. "Don't we all get a little carried away from time to time? Passion is the blessing of youth."

Come back tomorrow? The man's brown eyes narrowed. Patience was a virtue often preached to him, alas it was rarely practiced. He could wait a century for something, but when he wanted a thing, he seized on it voraciously. Alice didn't know it, but she was waving a bite of juicy steak in the nose of a starving man, and now she was asking him to wait.

In the grand scheme of things, all the world was meaningless except for the fraction right in front of Sasha. Right now, this was all he cared about. He was a single-minded thing, when there was a thing to focus on.

It was very possible, Sasha mused, that this 'trouble with the door' business was merely a cautious excuse. He was a tall, dark haired man casting a shadow on a petite woman in the corner of some darkened English street. She had every reason to be wary. However, Sasha felt his politeness merited more than suspicion. He had no ill-intentions, and he would not tolerate assumptions to the contrary. Even if they were wise.

"But here, if you're having trouble, allow me."

Edging in between Alice Lynch and the tailor shop, Sasha reached with a long arm to grasp the door handle firmly, and twisted. With a rather loud KLANK, the latching mechanism in the door snapped at once. His head cocked to the right as something tumbled loosely within the hollow wooden confines of the lock's housing and he released the door. It swung open effortlessly, leading into the shadow of a quiet shop.

"Ah, I'm sorry—" He glanced back at Alice with a jolt. "I didn't mean... was that lock broken, or something? Perhaps that's why you were having trouble?" Granting the woman space to breathe, Sasha placed his hands on his hips in the universal gesture for 'it's broken, I don't know what to do'. "You'll have to call a locksmith in the morning, I suppose."

The raven haired woman gave the lock a alarmed look when she hear the loud KLANK. The door had been fine this morning! Her eyes narrowed suspiciously for a moment. But the man had tried to open it when it was closed, perhaps something in the old door had given it. It wouldn't have surprised Alice. Her little shop was old, it was just as well that it went now! Had it not, she probably wouldn't have noticed she admitted to herself. Giving a forlorn sigh at the predicament. Slipping by the tall man, she fiddled with the door handle for a second, before admitting to herself she'd have to buy a new lock.

Still shaking her head- and tempted to put it on Sasha's bill- Alice slipped into the shop. Flipping the little light switch right inside the door revealing a polished wooden floors and deep cream walls. Dark shelves held different tools of her art, all obviously for show. A small table and set of chairs was set behind the front window and it's show of several seasonal clothes. But the place was quiet save of the soft tick of an antique clock above of the counter at the back, and the sharp tap of Alice's hard shoes on the floor. The counter held a antique cash register, and a box of business cards. Each one proclaiming 'Timeless Tailors' was owned by one Alice Lynch and that their hours were everyday save Sunday running from eight a.m. to six thirty p.m.

"Now, will you be needing a fitting as well?" Green eyes peered over her shoulder as she shed the maroon cloak. Beneath she wore a simple, black and red dress that fell neatly to her just above her knees in the front and a little bit more behind. It was subtle compared to some of the dresses that were hanging in the room. But green eyes didn't remain on Sasha for long, before they were peering at the seam calculating exactly how to fix it under the better lighting.

Now, that was easy. Sasha slowly drifted into the shop after Alice, like a shadowy afterthought to her serious, if reluctant professionalism. The dim illumination from the streetlights outside was briefly eclipsed by his lengthy silhouette, snuffing out the golden starlight of dimly glittering knicknacks within. His oppressing shadow was lifted when Alice switched on the lights, bringing life once again to quaint little tailor shop, which had been closed up only moments ago.

Sasha shut the door behind him, but it failed to latch, and so swung slightly open. He stared at it for a moment, considering the damage he’d wrought, and wondered whether he felt guilty.

“Thank you, truly, for going out of your way.” He drifted toward this year’s display of autumn fashioned, and took a sleeve of a coat in his hand. The material was coarse, yet yielding, beneath the experimental stroke of his thumb. “You have no idea how important this is to me.”

In a fit of whimsy, Sasha looked down at himself, comparing his own attire to what hung on the rack. He looked about twenty years out of date, if he could gauge correctly. But who could keep up with these things? And sometimes being out of fashion was in fashion, though he’d be the last person to ask.

Dropping the sleeve, and dusting his hand on his coat, he then drifted toward the counter and picked up one of the business cards. There was something poetically appropriate about the name, although thus far Alice seemed to be a far cry from the Alasdair whom Sasha once knew. His thumbnail ran over the shop’s hours. Closed at six-thirty, yet here she was.

What was so lacking in this girl’s life that she would be here, instead of out with friends like anyone else her age would be?

She offered to take his measurements.

Sasha raised his eyebrows, then lifted his head toward Alice. A fitting? He’d come to get his coat mended, not taken in.

“Now that you mention it.” He set the card neatly back with its brethren. “I think that would be a fine idea. It seems more likely than not that I’ll be back here for other things. My wardrobe could use a bit of an update.”

So with that, he began to slip off his long coat, shedding some volume from his tall frame and revealing more of his thin, buttoned shirt. He wasn’t much less broad without the coat. ‘Trim’ would suit.

“Irish, isn’t it?” The coat was set upon the counter, and he prepared to lift his arms so Alice could get to work. “Your accent. Not from around here, I take it?”

"'Tis." Alice chirped happily as she leaned behind the counter to snatch up two sets of measuring tape. Steering her course through the halls of her trade, the little raven haired woman chuckled. "Odd though I've never lived there for longer than a month or so." It truly was so. While she spent some time there in her youth visiting her family and such the accent had come naturally and she had adapted to it. Though most of her accent was picked up from her father, who often spoke in it while mutter over his work. Furrowing her brow slightly at that thought she shook her head. He was a man driven by his work as was most her family. It was merely a shame they saw this as a waste of her potential. But it was a old argument and Alice reminded herself firmly she was making it without them.

Winding the spare measurement tape around the door hand to make a makeshift 'rope' latch. Turning herself about to the tall stranger she gave a shy smile. "Now shall we get to work." Her pale face gave a beckoning nod towards the small raised dais surrounded by mirrors. One arm holding the cloak, the other holding a pin cushion with thread. Placing the cushion on a small iron-wrought table she often used to hold her tools when fitting someone. Several boxes of pins already set upon it from her last client. She frowned slightly again. Something was off, and there were little jingling alarm bells in her head. Glancing out of the corner of her eye towards the man who she had just beckoned and noted with a slight twitch of her usually steady hands that he had no reflection. Not in any mirror about the shop, and as this was a tailor's shop... There were quite the number of mirrors!

Biting the inside of her cheek, she walked back to the counter. Taking the seconds to conform her facade of calm, even with her steps sounding too loud and too sharp even for her. Internally she was nibbling her mental nails to the quick. It would be best to get him out of the shop quick as possible, every instinct agreed on this. Then the best thing to do would be to get him done quickly, and send him on his way! She scooped up a piece of chalk from her quick kit behind the counter. Walking back she prayed he didn't notice her hands shake slightly. It could just be the lighting, or some weird wiring problem. Or something! Alice cut down on that train of thought, offering a shaky smile to the man. "If you could put on that coat for me?" There was no way, he didn't notice her voice shake. Alice thought, cursing herself for not taking the opportunity to fetch something from her safe, private work room.

Though, she thought again biting her lower lip. She did have her pins and needles and to hell if she didn't know how to poke someone to make them not want to come back. It would be horrible to botch the job, but perhaps that exactly what would need doing.

Sasha glanced toward the dais, hesitating. There were mirrors there. It was not a natural instinct to avoid them, but a learned one. In this modern age of vanity, with a mirror in every shop, every room, and every vehicle, it was getting more impossible to evade awkward situations. Security cameras and phones added to the problem, as they too failed at capturing his image. It was a strange thing. Here he had been, existing all this time without having to constantly worry about his one odd quirk, when the humans had unintentionally gradually been crafting sharper mirrors and imaging devices that would expose him for what he was.

Perhaps it wasn't so unintentional. Charles Darwin's On the Origin of Species did note that predator and prey constantly evolved to outwit each other, not intentionally but as a fact of biology and survival of the fittest. Humans mastering technology had made them formidable after centuries, and now almost everyone had the ability to document his or her surroundings in crystal clear recordings.

To the right crowds, Sasha stood out like a bright light in a dark room. Fortunately, he doubted that Alice had any special contact with these crowds.

Pocketing his hands, Sasha obeyed her request and walked up toward the mirrors.

A familiar scent gradually spiced the air as he passed Alice Lynch. Faint, but it was there.

Fear.

Sasha turned his back to the mirror, watching the young tailor girl as she fetched the tools of her trade. The mirth had drained out of his expression as he examined her without feeling, suddenly appearing unbelievably old. He enjoyed her reactions in an academic sense, all the little things. The new stiffness in her movements, that small change in her voice. Humans stood at the top of their food chains now, but hidden deep within them was still the wary simian fearing predation from lions and tigers. Among other things.

"Is something wrong, Alice?" Sasha folded his arms, as if in defiance of the mirrors behind him, which showed nothing. Despite her request, he left the coat alone. His ploy was over, and he was moving ahead with his strategy. "You seem a little tense."

Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the door. If she made for it, he would have to intervene.

Alice's green eyes narrowed slightly as she focused them on the torn coat. Circling him with the measuring tape and muttering lengths softly to herself. The woman debated answering, but sighed slightly. There would be no ignoring him. It was rude, worse he knew she heard him. What with those crossed arms and that look. "Just a tad tired is all. It is rather late." She amended, and all it was true. It was late at the shop and she had been working on a deadline. Many would wonder why she was not out with friends, while those friends she did have would steer clear of the shop till the deadline date was over with. Then they would descend with cheer and help. Reviving the weaken tailor after days of little sleep and food.

Pulling his arm with a unyielding persistence she gave Sasha a scolding look. "And you know how to stand for a tailor. Arms spread please." The tiny woman admonished, though her hand still shook as she jabbed a pin into the fabric making to take it in a bit around the arms well sure she pricked the man. Both for the little plan she had concocted and for not standing as he should. Whenever did you cross your arms at a tailor's?

She jotted a few notes on the coat with the chalk, eyeing the door to her little work room. If she could get the coat in there, perhaps she could feign falling asleep till he left or morning and there were more people about. What with the coat and her other work she could tide her nerves over till morning surely. "It's well fitting, needs a bit taken in around the arm. Same with the waist. Though your shoulders could stand to be let out. Probably what popped that seem in the first place." Alice forced herself to sound cheerful, and keep smiling though there was a shakiness to it. She stuck another pin through cinching the waist, pricking him again with a Irish woman's vengence. "Oh dear. Terribly sorry." She lied, checking the frayed and torn seam and pinning that as well.

As Alice circled him, Sasha stood in place and kept watch from the corners of his eyes, only minutely turning his head. He was waiting for the realization to strike her, for that delicious moment when perplexity bloomed into alarm. When something instinctive switched on, regardless of the logic of the situation, and ignited an animal response. There they remained on the precipice, ready to tip over the edge. But she lingered there.

Disbelief. Hm. Well, that happened.

She proceeded with the measuring. When he didn’t immediately spread out his arms, she pricked him with the pin. He jumped at once, and held out his arms if only in astonishment.

“Ah!” He kept his arms held up, finding himself a bit captive by her professional assertiveness alone. “What are you—?”

Alice was pretending nothing was wrong. She went on pulling her tape taut and taking her measurements, as she promised. Perhaps as long as she fulfilled her end of the agreed arrangement, he was perform his and the night would thankfully come to a close. Was that all she was going to do?

Still, he appraisal wasn’t unflattering.

“Well, not surprising the shoulders are too tight,” he muttered, vainly distracted by Alice’s observations. “I had this made in Malaysia. They typically don’t have people in my size.”

Sasha glanced in the mirror, where Alice moved alone. If she didn’t look at it, there was no problem.

How typically human. This was such a symptom of the modern era. It used to afflict only the rich and comfortable, who would preserve the status quo by denying that anything could ever shift the balance, but now the entire Westernized world was rich and happy. At this end of the Industrial Revolution, the humans were beginning to note that they were cooking their world alive.

Yet as long as they pretended it wasn’t happening, surely there was no catastrophe waiting for them on the horizon.

“You’re an odd one, aren’t you? [i]Hey—!” Sasha darted to the side, feeling another pinch on his side. “Do you impale all your customers or just the ones with no reflection?” He rubbed at his waist defensively. “You’ve noticed, I know you have. Are you trying to convince yourself you’re that tired?”

Alice gave the mirror, and it's lack of a reflection, a glower in response to his squirming. Clicking her tongue in disapproval she puffed out her cheeks slightly. A true sign that she was getting agitated with him and the situation. Alice was a quiet, peaceful creature and enjoyed her life so. That he was being so... Unhelpful, was an affront into of her slight fright. So she spoke with sheer frankness.

"No. I'm actually tired due to working on a deadline, and trying to convince you to go elsewhere!" She poked him in the other side with another pin, resecuring the little bit she had to do to trim waist to proprietary position. Green eyes flared at him as she hissed in a accusing tone. "You have no reflection!" Each word punctuated by a prick with her clever pins.

It was a situation that would be quite amusing to a bystander. A tiny little doll like human, scolding and pricking a poor, not at all defenseless man into a corner. It was akin to watching a puffed up cat back a great Dane into a corner. Alice however did not see it that way as she huffed with another flurry of measurements. "And hold still! Haven't you been to a tailor's before?" Her shy voice now sharp with exasperation.

The third bite from the needle this time prompted little more than a frown. It had become genuinely annoying, and no longer off-guard, the sting was negligible. He’d endured far, far worse.

“Theoretically I do,” he replied, watching the tailor girl continue to attempt to distract herself from her crumbling reality with work and stubborn self-reassurance. “The laws of physics demand that I do. It’s been thought by some that your mind simply refuses to behold it.” Sasha rolled his wrist, moving onward from one idea to the next. “Another theory is that we truly don’t have reflections, because we aren’t truly a part of this existence. But that’s rubbish.”

There were plenty of people who would argue with ferocious certainty that Sasha very much existed. Unfortunately, the great majority of them were dead.

Growing tired with his game, Sasha made a swipe to grab Alice’s wrist. He wanted to disable that plucking needle. His hand was cold, and his grip was vice-like.

“More times than you have, I imagine.” If there was one constant to society over the ages (though let’s be honest, there are several), it was tailor shops. He’d visited more tailors for his clothing than any other tradesmen for any other type of ware. Mass produced clothing was a rather recent venture, and Sasha had never had a wife to craft his wardrobe for him.

Well, he had once, but that was eons ago.

“Alice,” he spoke to her directly, stepping off the dais. Perhaps that would realign her with reality. “Alice Lynch.” A name she had never given him, but he’d already known before they’d met. “No matter how you close your eyes or block your ears, you know something is wrong. You must understand by now the coat was a ruse. I need you.”

Sasha tilted his head, conceding to some obligation to clarify pestering him in his thoughts.

“Or rather, first I need to confirm who you are.” He looked her over, up and down. Slight of frame. Certainly seemed Irish enough. “Irish, correct? On your father’s side, isn’t that right?”

Alice gave a startled jolt when he grabbed her wrist, but it only fueled the green fire in her eyes all the more. Be that fire rage, indignation, or a variation of fear and panic. It was doubtful even she knew fully. She flung herself back straining against his grip as she hurled daggers with her eyes. Quite literally her last defense. But a cool collective part of her mind. The business part noted his words.

He knew her name for one, that was not uncommon. It was on the cards up front and if he didn't get it from there it could have been by word of mouth. But that the coat was a ruse? That he needed her? Her face paled slightly as her mind whirled with details, notes, and exactly every detail of the horror stories she had been told by various friends. Her eyes darted towards the busted door. Why did he need to know if her father was Irish?

"He is." The tiny tailor answered in a shaky voice. If this was some ransom ploy, he had the wrong Lynch. It would be her sibling they would want. The 'pride' of the family. Their perfect child. Someone to live up to the professional Lynch name. It was a rather sore spot, but she banished the pain deep inside. "Alistair Lynch the Third." Even with that bitterness buried she couldn't keep it from her voice. "And he won't give you a pound if you demand ransom." She sniffed coldly sliding into that coolness her father wore so easily. "But you will have every constable on you from Scotland Yard itself." Alice was a cheery and nice person, if a tad forgetful and absent minded. Being so cold just felt wrong to her, but if it was the mask she needed to wear to get out of this alive...

Alistair. The name struck Sasha with physical force, seen in the narrowing of his eyes. It was only her father’s name, of course, but he knew it was inherited. That confirmed it. And good thing, too, finding her had required an enormous amount of research through paper databases and online ancestry sites. Stealing credit cards to pay for those documents had become tiresome.

After a beat, Sasha released Alice’s wrist, and then he folded his arms again. He had breached beyond accepted etiquette by now. There was no uncertainty of a hostile element at play; he had bared his intentions. Now she was either going to try to run, or phone police. Sasha watched her, prepared to prevent her from doing either.

“Ransom?” He indulged in a chuckle and the roll of his eyes. “Darling, what I need can’t be bought. I meant what I said. I need you. Have you ever been to Marseille?”

Feeling a trace of oddly human guilt, Sasha conceded with a sigh and let his shoulders droop.

“You can stop puffing out your chest, sweetheart.” He batted the air with the back of one hand before tucking it back into his elbow. “I have no desire to hurt you. But you and I are leaving, tonight.”

Looking to his left, Sasha feathered his hair as he looked at the mirror, pretending that he could see his reflection in a mockery of vanity.

“Alistair. It’s a family name, isn’t it?” He already knew that it was. “How much do you know about your ancestry? Back to the Celts?”

Once released she darted a few steps away. She must have said something right, or perhaps not. He continued speaking asking things. If she had been to Mariseille- where ever that was. She didn't know locations very well and the place sounded French or Italian. It was doubtful, she thought, that this man would be able to convince her to go. "No I haven't and no. I don't know about my family ancestry." Her snarl was almost palpable. Family was a very sore subject with her. "I have better things to do, so do not think I will check nor assist you on whatever the heck you are doing." Tempted as she was, Alice never swore. "I have a shop to tend."

But as he was looking to the left, she moved to the right. Darting for that tiny room in the back in which she could barricade herself into, and in which she could call the authorities. It would delight her family to learn of this! That poor little Alice couldn't take care of herself safely. Another notch to their belt that she would be better off with the 'family'. Foolish, foolish, foolish. Alice's shoes echoed her thoughts with a sharp click of each steps. If luck held he would think her going to the register, or perhaps if it didn't she could out run him.

Doubtful in this dress and shoes.

As Alice began to run for her life, Sasha merely turned his head. Before dashing after her, he sighed and glanced down to examine his nails for half an instant.

He was inhumanly fast, and the gust of air he left in his wake was enough to wobble the mirrors and pushed a short table well out of place. Instead of moving to intercept Alice, he grabbed at the lower hem of her skirt, attempting to trip her and send her off her footing. After that, it was only a matter of placing himself beside her and holding out an arm so that he could gently catch her before she tumbled to the ground.

“Your shop is closed, Alice Lynch,” Sasha informed her cheerfully, his chestnut eyes slanted down at her. He ran one hand over his hair and looked around the shop to assess its noticeable lack of customers. “It so happens that I do know about about your ancestry, so allow me to enlighten you.”

Although it was clear that he didn’t intend to allow her to flee, Sasha made no further attempt to keep her physically in his grasp. If she ran again, he would only stop her again. Let her exhaust herself and surrender, he thought, rather than subduing her with brute strength. He wasn’t a savage. Especially not in this female-empowered, post feminist era. Women could even own land these days, or choose their own husbands, or even keep their own names after marriage.

“Alasdair was a Celt and your great grandfather to some obscene degree.” Sasha placed a hand to his chest. “I knew him as Aleksander, but he still called himself Alasdair in his own journals. From what I can read in that ancient tongue. He must have thousands of descendents by now—one of which is you—” He pointed at Alice. “But he had a favored bloodline. Eldest children, typically.”

He grimaced.

“If you’re not willing to cooperate, I suppose I could use your father instead.” Sasha looked down at the waifish girl. “Or… do you have any siblings?”

Giving and indignant shriek as she fell towards the floor only to be caught by the problematic assailant. Alice glowered up at this strange stranger so called Sasha. Of course her shop was close! That did not mean she did not have work! Added in the fact of deadlines she had yet to do for special projects... it was all rather hectic, something she dearly loved in her nice quite little shop. A appearance of calm and serenity with a little hectic schedule in the spring and holidays.

Though as this man spoke of her supposed ever so many greats grandfather, the tiny dark haired tailor's frown only deepened. How did he know about something like that? If it was true, that was. She honestly never had cared enough about her family to delve back into that history. But it sounded true enough. Though, Alice thought bitterly, more than one person had easily gotten her to believe some lie. She was susectible to them at times. Such as wiring and houses and shops. Adding to that list was apparently people, or rather tall strange men named Sasha, who needed halo with clothes late at night.

"Good luck going after him." She huffed, her cheeks stained red with embrassed and angered blush. "I haven't the slightest idea where he might be. And even if you did find him, you wouldn't be able to get close to him without some appointment and ten people in attendance." She deigned not to answer about her sibling. The perfect little Lynch child. She had never cared for her relation and preferred to not thinking them. Which was rather hard to do this night. "And I need to open my shop tommorrow! I have deadlines for projects! And a door to repair." Her frown turned accusatory as she pouted at Sasha.

“Alice,” Sasha chided, almost parental. “I’ve imposed well beyond my welcome and now I’ve all but assaulted you. Do I seem like someone who makes appointments?”

Without waiting for her to respond, he adjusted his grip so that he had better leverage over her waist and arms. Then, with one hefty swing, Sasha lifted Alice up off the floor, and then even higher, settling her meager weight up on his shoulder. Holding her fast with one arm, now freeing the other, he began to search the shop for something suitable for his needs.

“Look, I’m really not a bad person,” he assured her, beginning to sound mildly exhausted. He carried her across the shop, toward rolls of linens. “If I was, I would have been dead long ago. Most of my mates ended up just so for being bastards. But this is important, and I can’t take chances.”

Attracted to a thick roll of patterned cloth, sporting a gold hexagonal design over a backdrop of deep red, Sasha moved up and began to put the fabric free, bunching it up in his hands to serve as bindings. Already he had begun wrapping Alice’s calves together to restrict their movement.

“Listen! I n—” Sasha sighed, sounding genuinely remorseful. “I need this. Alright? At the end, I promise you can go free. You can even tell the authorities all about me, where I am, all that. They won’t find me anyway. But I need to help my father.” He paused a moment and added, “Alasdair, your ancestor.”

Sasha offloaded the girl onto her feet, now wrapped up to her knees, but he still kept drawing fabric. He kept hold of one of her wrists and seemed prepared to bind her arms as well.

“The door lock is broken, you won’t show up for work tomorrow. I’ll topple some things.” Sasha shrugged, pulling fabric taut between his hands. “No one will blame you for not doing your job. They’ll just assume you’ve been kidnapped by some brute who broke in.”

He tilted his head.

“Suppose they’d be right, come to think of it.”

There was another squeal as poor Alice was hedged over the bride's shoulder. Indignation was putting what she was feeling mildly. But as he spoke, that supposedly thick wall of hard headedness melted right quick enough. Sure, her father had been a right hard and awful man, but many others didn't share the sentiment of their own parents. It seemed this Sasha, whatever he was, was the same.

Green eyes looked at him curiously. Softened from their hardened fear and anger of the situation. But there was still that stubborn set of her chin and her furiously blazing cheeks. "You come in here, just my door. Oh, yes you had to have done it!" She chewed at her inner cheek a old habit she had when thinking. "You say I have to help you, and you aren't leaving me any choice." Oh yes he wasn't! No one left her any choice! They all had plans and lives for her to live, and Alice was quite sick of it.

"Well, I'll make it easy." Her own words took her by surprise, but not completely. She was a soft hearted woman and this smelled like a possible 'two birds, one stone' deal. Poor Sasha probably saw the gleam of her family that did dwell within the mischievous glint of her eyes. "You pay for the upstairs renovations and travel expenses. Plus any supplies I might need and I'll go with you without a fuss!" She glowered at her wrists, "Thought I am going to need to pack for myself and take a few projects I haven't finished with me. Which means I'll need to stop by my apartment and call a few people to get someone to watch the shop." Her frown deepened. "If I don't, I will make your life very hard."