Page 15 of Nix and Tell

“I shouldn’t let them know?”

Her face shadows again. “Like I said, river demons.”

And I’m left with the slightly odd feeling that though I can see through her illusions, I’m still missing something.

11

Chlo

So I go a bit overboard with the cooking.

I like to cook, sure, but the prospect of cooking for Violet short circuits my brain and I find myself trialling and discarding any number of ideas. In the end, I decide to go simple, and make a hearty mac and cheese—complete with pancetta and four different types of cheese. I prep it ahead of time, and then pop it in the oven, on low, just before seven. That’ll give us time to sit and chat before it’s ready to be eaten.

All afternoon I’ve been distracted, and I suppose it’s just as well it’s been a quiet business day. Weekends are often quieter at Suited; people don’t like to come to a tailor when there are lots of others around, especially when that suit needs a lot of bespoke tweaks. Adjusting jackets to make space for boobs—or sometimes the lack thereof, after top surgery or mastectomies—I’ve always found the process really satisfying.

Knowing that I’m a safe space where people can come and dress as their true selves has always felt important to me. Partly because finding a space like of my own has always felt tricky,even if it’s due to the fact that I’m a nix, and less to do with my own queerness.

Violet’s shop has always felt like a safe space, though.

The bell of the door rings and I look up.

She’s standing in the doorway in some black meshthingthat makes my mouth dry out instantly. There’s a slip underneath, just about, but the rest of it is sheer black lace, with a skirt that flares at her waist and sleeves that flare from the elbow. She looks delectable.

“Heya Chlo,” she says, bouncing in as if she has no idea what impact the dress is having on me. But there’s a twinkle in her eye that lets on that she’s entirely aware of what she’s doing.

I thank all the gods that I had the foresight to shower and change before she arrived. I’m wearing a suit myself—one of my ones—that looks very 1920s. My hair is back to its usual marcel waves, and I feel like I look pretty dapper.

From the way that she takes in my outfit, I’m fairly certain that Vi agrees as well.

“You look nice.” My voice is more gruff than I’d like, but her face crinkles up in a smile. It’s not my fault. Around anyone else I’m articulate—funny even—I just struggle function when I’m with her.

“Nice? That’s it?” She grins so I’ll know she’s joking. “I guess I’ll have to try harder in future.”

I try incredibly hard to avoid thinking about what her trying harder might look like, but my traitorous brain conjures up images of curves barely contained in scraps of lace even sheerer than what she’s wearing right now and I almost have a coughing fit.

“Take pity on me!” I beg. “I’m only human. Well…”

“Yes, about that… why didn’t you tell me you’re fae? Surely I should have heard about your river demon-ness before we kissed?”

What’s she talking about? We had a whole conversation about Trisantona and… “Wait, didn’t Trisantona tell you about me?”

“We were very much concerned with her and her need for tribute.”

“Bloody goddesses. Always so self-involved.” I look at her apologetically. “I’m so sorry; I promise I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I just assumed.”

Vi shrugs her shoulders, but her smile hasn’t lessened. I think she’s teasing me. “Hazel explained everything. You don’t need to panic, Chlo.”

Her hand on my arm centred me and the rising panic that had my heartbeat increasing retreats. “I’m not sure what she said, but I’m happy to answer any questions you may have. Why don’t we head up to my apartment, and you can quiz me to your heart’s content?”

Seeing my flat through Vi’s eyes makes me slightly uncomfortable. It’s not that it’s nice, or that it’s particularly, but there’s very few personal touches dotted around. If anything, it feels like an extension of the shop down below. She doesn’t criticise it, but there’s something about how she takes in the piles of cloth and threads that makes me fidget.

“I have to check on dinner.” I go to the kitchen, needing a moment to myself. She follows me, and says nothing. There’s nothing to actually check really—dinner won’t be done for another twenty minutes—but I make a show of opening the oven and peering in.

“Chlo.”

I don’t say much, just turn sheepishly. “Yes?”

Vi steps sharply up to me, and takes a hold of my braces firmly, tugging me until I’m close enough to her to count each individual eyelash. Her eyes are searching my face, and she nods decisively. “Something’s the matter. I don’t know what it is, ofcourse. Damn my autism. But you need to talk to me please. I don’t like that you look upset.”

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