Chapter Text
Aglaea's key stuck in the lock for the third time that morning. She jiggled it, swore under her breath, and finally heard the satisfying click. The door to 14 Thornbury Lane swung open with a groan that sounded almost human.
"Well," she said to the empty hallway, "at least you have character."
The estate agent had called it "a period property with original features." What he'd meant was: old, drafty, and nobody else wanted it. But the rent was affordable (suspiciously so) and Aglaea desperately needed the space. Her flat had been too small for both living and working, and her seamstress business was finally, tentatively, beginning to grow. She needed room for her sewing machine, for fabric storage, and for the dress forms that currently lived in her bathroom.
She dragged her first box inside, leaving tracks in the dust. The floorboards creaked a greeting.
By evening, she'd set up her workspace in what must have once been a drawing room. Large windows for natural light, enough space to lay out patterns. The sewing machine looked absurdly modern against the Victorian wainscoting, but Aglaea had never cared much about aesthetics. Function mattered more.
She was pinning a hem on a bridesmaid dress when she felt it. That peculiar sensation of being watched.
"If you're a rat," she said without looking up, "I'm setting traps."
"How charming. Yes, do compare me to vermin. Excellent start."
Aglaea's head snapped up.
A man stood—no, hovered—near the fireplace. Translucent in the lamplight, dressed in clothes at least a century out of date: high collar, waistcoat, coat with tails. His hair was dark, swept back in a style she'd only seen in photographs. And his expression was one of supreme irritation.
"You can see me," he said.
"Unfortunately." Aglaea's hand had gone to her scissors. Fat lot of good they'd do against a ghost, but the weight was comforting.
"Don't faint."
"I'm not going to faint. I'm trying to decide if I've been breathing in mold spores or if the house came with an incredibly rude ghost."
His eyebrows rose. "Rude? I merely stated a fact."
"You compared my greeting to vermin commentary."
"You began the comparison. I simply acknowledged it." He drifted closer, examining her workspace with the air of someone inspecting a curiosity shop. "What is all this?"
"My livelihood. I'm a seamstress."
"Ah." His tone suggested she'd announced herself as a stable hand. "How... industrious."
"How condescending. Are all Victorian ghosts this insufferable, or am I just lucky?"
"I'm not—" He stopped, jaw tightening. "I am Anaxagoras Thornbury. This was my family's home."
"Was being the operative word. I'm paying rent now. So unless you're also paying rent, I think that makes this my space, Mr. Thornbury."
"Lord Thornbury, actually."
Aglaea snorted. "Of course it is. Well, Lord Thornbury, I have a deadline. So you can either make yourself useful or make yourself scarce."
For a moment, he looked so genuinely offended that Aglaea almost felt bad. Almost.
Then his expression shifted into something sharper, more assessing. "Your hem is uneven on the left side."
She looked down. Damn it, he was right.
"Excellent observational skills," she said coolly, unpinning the section. "I can see why you've spent over a century haunting a house. Truly utilizing your talents."
"At least I have standards. That fabric is appalling."
"That fabric is what the client chose and could afford. Not everyone can swan around in—" She gestured vaguely at his outfit. "—whatever museum piece you're wearing."
"This is bespoke tailoring from Savile Row."
"This is my least favorite conversation I've had all week, and I argued with my landlord about the boiler this morning."
"I'm your landlord's landlord, technically. Family trust."
"Oh, wonderful. I'm being haunted by my landlord. Is this about the security deposit?"
Despite himself (and she could see him fighting it), Anaxa's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "You're not running."
"Where would I run to? I signed a year's lease and I can't afford anywhere else." Aglaea turned back to her work. "Besides, I've dealt with handsy clients, delayed payments, and a sewing machine that sounds like it's summoning demons. A ghost with opinions about hemlines is hardly my worst problem."
"How reassuring to rank above mechanical issues."
"Don't push it. You're still below the boiler."
This time he definitely almost smiled. "You have thread in your hair."
"You're translucent."
"That's not an insult, it's a statement of being."
"So was mine."
They stared at each other. Aglaea waited for him to vanish in a huff, or rattle some chains, or do whatever affronted Victorian ghosts did.
Instead, Anaxa drifted to the window, looking out at the street that bore his family name. "Your tension is too tight on that seam. It'll pucker when she moves."
"Are you actually trying to help, or just criticizing?"
"Can't it be both?"
Aglaea adjusted the tension. He was right again, annoyingly. "How long have you been here?"
"Since 1887."
"Doing what, exactly? Judging the sewing of every tenant?"
"There haven't been many seamstresses. Mostly young men who can't afford better, or older women who don't mind the drafts. One absolutely dreadful musician who I drove out within a fortnight."
"Charming. A discriminating ghost."
"He played the trombone. At midnight."
"...Alright, that's fair."
Anaxa turned from the window. In the lamplight, he looked almost solid, a trick of shadows and wishful thinking. "You still haven't told me your name."
"Aglaea."
"Greek."
"My mother's idea. She teaches classics."
"How... learned." The way he said it, she couldn't tell if it was genuine or mocking.
"How... dead," she replied sweetly. "See, I can also state facts."
His laugh surprised them both. A short, sharp sound, rusty with disuse. "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"
"Lord Thornbury, I'm going to be your worst nightmare. I work late, I talk to myself, and I have absolutely no respect for the landed gentry."
"Delightful."
"I thought so."
Aglaea returned to her sewing, acutely aware of him watching. Not threatening, just... present. After a while, he began to fade, transparency giving way to near-invisibility.