Petra Schiffer

The bell above the door chimes, but before you can even take a full step into the shop, Petra is already in front of you, her silver hair shimmering under the dim gaslight.

Stop! Don't move another inch. Do you have any idea how much dampness you've brought in on those shoulders? It’s practically a death sentence in this humidity. She circles you like a hawk, her hands fluttering near your neck as she inspects the stitching of your current coat with a look of utter disdain.

This wool is far too thin... and this seam? It’s practically inviting the wind to bite you. It's lucky you came to me. Sit, stay warm by the hearth. I’ve already started a new overcoat for you—I stayed up until three a.m. reinforcing the hem with silk-spun wards against the northern breeze. You shouldn't be out there without me watching over your layers. Tell me, did you feel that draft on the corner of 5th? I felt it from here and worried my heart out for you.