"How," Dorian asked the ceiling, "am I not in prison?"
The ceiling, stained with years of pipe leaks and possibly one incident involving a fire, offered no reply. It simply loomed above him with the resigned tolerance of someone forced to witness yet another existential monologue.
Dorian slouched further in his creaky chair, absently spinning a coin between his fingers. He watched it gleam in the lamplight. a gold piece from the lies he created, a symbol of triumph, deception, and just a hint of morally flexible capitalism.
"Honestly," he muttered. "Every single day I expect the police to break down that door."
He glanced at the door.
Still intact. No battering rams. No lawyers. No torches. Not even a threatening note pinned with a dagger, which frankly felt like a missed opportunity.
Dorian sighed, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel. "Any moment now, someone will realize I'm selling elaborate lies stuffed in antique packaging, and then-"
Ding.
The bell over the door tinkled.
Dorian froze mid-monologue.
He turned slowly, the way one might turn to face an avalanche.
And there she was.
The Baroness.
Again.
This time, clad in Velvet again, of course. enough velvet to upholster a small kingdom. Her hair was still towered and braided, her gaze still sharp enough to skewer any man at fifty paces. And this time, she carried an expression Dorian could only interpret as…
Purposeful.
He stood. Too fast. The chair scraped back with the screech of a dying man.
"My lady," he said, bowing low, and also possibly shielding himself. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
'I'm Soo fucked'
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Dorian's soul prepared to leap from his body.
But then.
"I wish to make another purchase."
His brain had an aneurysm.
"Pardon?"
"I require another item. Something… rare."
She began to pace slowly through the shop, and Dorian. utterly blindsided. could only nod, brain stuttering like a broken engine.
"You mean… you liked the mirror?"
"It was," she said, with the same tone one might use for a particularly good champagne, "adequate. More importantly, it served its purpose."
Dorian felt a rush of pride and confusion so strong it nearly gave him a nosebleed.
"Well then!" he said, clapping his hands together. "What may I interest you in today? I have a compass that never points north, a dull iron band that draws people's eyes to you, and a surprisingly loud music box!"
The Baroness arched an eyebrow and strolled past a pile of items posed like a poker table. "No. I am in need of something elegant. Spectacular. Fabled."
Dorian nodded wisely. "Naturally. Something tasteful. Resplendent. Enchantingly dubious."
"I require," she said, stopping dead center in the shop, "a mystical dress."
Dorian's brain was preparing to explode.
"A… dress?"
"Yes. One with history. Preferably tragedy. Possibly haunting. But most of all flattering."
Dorian stared at her.
She stared back.
He smiled.
She did not.
(Rude bastard)
"Of course," he said, very slowly. "A mystical dress. Naturally. Who doesn't want hemline such as that."
She folded her arms. "You do have one, don't you?"
"Oh, certainly!" he lied. "Let me just.. get it... At the back."
She nodded. "Good. I'll wait."
And just like that, Dorian turned on his heel and fled into the back room.
The instant the curtain swung shut behind him, he let out a strangled noise somewhere between a scream and a cough.
He darted through the cluttered storage room, knocking over a crate labeled Definitely Not Cursed. Don't Open. Clothes? Did he even own clothes? The only wardrobe in the shop belonged to a mannequin missing its torso and wearing a corset made of thimbles.
"There has to be something. come on, Dorian. think!"
He ripped open a dusty trunk, revealing a heap of molded scarves and what may once have been underpants.
"Nope. No dress. No gown. Not even a damn napkin."
Then, just as despair was about to strangle him, he saw it.
Lying in a forgotten corner, nestled on a faded cushion, was a glove.
White as moonlight. Smooth as poured cream. It gleamed faintly in the gloom, untouched by dust, pristine and… somehow wrong.
Dorian crept toward it.
The glove was long. elegant, almost impossibly delicate. Threads shimmered like cobwebs under the lantern's light. It looked hand-stitched, impossibly fine, and. most importantly. not actively decomposing.
He picked it up.
A chill ran up his arm.
"No time for haunted nonsense," he hissed, tucking it under his arm and storming back into the shop.
"Madam," he said."
He cleared his throat and produced the glove with a flourish.
"May I present… the Glove of Arachne."
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "A glove?"
Dorian leaned in, lowering his voice.
"Yes. A glove. But not just any glove."
(It was, infact, just a glove)
"This, my lady, was spun from the silk of Arachne herself."
"A myth," she said coolly.
"Yes, well," Dorian replied.
He pressed on. "This glove was created not for power, but for perfection. Smooth enough to shame snow. And quite Durable. Woven by the cursed hands of a woman too gifted for the gods to tolerate."
She reached out slowly, brushing her fingers along the silk.
"It is soft."
"Of course. It's made from tragedy and spider spit. The finest."
"Is it enchanted?"
"My dear Lady," Dorian said quickly. "Not everything must be enchanted for it to have value."
He hesitated, then added, "But those who wear it are said to never be forgotten."
She considered that.
"Very well."
The Baroness nodded slowly. "How much?"
"Sixty gold pieces," he said, pulling the number from a place that had not seen sunlight in years.
She didn't blink.
She drew out another pouch and placed it on the counter.
Dorian felt faint.
As she lifted the glove, she said, "You'll find I am not one to settle for mediocrity."
Dorian, dazed, nodded. "And I'm not one to provide it."
(He absolutely was.)
She gave a curt nod, turned, and swept out once more into the Lowbridge mist.
The bell gave its now-familiar sad little jingle.
And Dorian was left behind, staring at the gold.
Again.
He let out a long breath, slumped into his chair, and let the grin split his face.
"I really am unstoppable," he whispered. "I just sold a glove for the price of a house."
Then the light flickered.
A breeze swept through the shop, even though all the windows were closed.
From the back room came a soft skritch.
Dorian froze.
He looked over his shoulder.
Nothing.
Just a mannequin.
But the glove's absence left a faint shimmer in the air. like a thread still hanging loose.
Dorian shook his head.
"Nope," he said to the ceiling. "I am not dealing with that today."
He picked up his teacup. Took a sip.
Still awful.
Still probably poisonous.
But the taste of gold on his tongue made everything else sweeter.
Outside, the rain returned. soft this time. Like a lullaby. Or the tap of something very light, and very many-legged, on a window.
Dorian didn't notice.
He was already planning what he could pass off next.
Maybe the umbrella.
Maybe the mop head.
He chuckled to himself.
"Someone's gonna believe that's value. I just need to name it something dramatic."
He raised his cup.
"To my imagination," he said aloud.
And somewhere, faintly, something laughed.