Jazelle jerked her chin upward in response to Pricilla’s greeting, then followed her back into the maze of hallways. This time, she did not bother to try keeping track of where they went. If this route would be anything like the last, she had no hope of remembering the twists and turns.
	“It had to take you [i]years[/i] to memorize the halls here,” Jazelle muttered, her hands ever in her muff. She eyed every soul who passed by with a suspicious curiosity. Though she paid the servants and whatever they may be carrying a quick glance, she had to do a double-take when she noticed one far different from the others.
	Her steps faltered, and she gawked at a person carrying a glass case. But it was not the book with a heavy aura he carried, nor the gemstone in his forehead that caught her attention; her gaze settled on his blank, white eyes. When he passed, she shuddered from a mix of eeriness of his eyes, and the aura of the well-protected book as it brushed against her.
	Shaking her head, she looked back to Priscilla, who had gotten ahead of her, then hurried to catch up, her shoulders hunched. She cast the strange man a glance over her shoulder, wondering if that was a result of something Sunder did, or if he was another race entirely.
	Though the door Priscilla stopped to open was not as grand as the one to the dining hall, it was still impressive for an interior door.
	Jazelle hung just in the doorway for a moment as a man and two women turned to the newcomers She looked to the various tailor’s tools hanging from their belts, from a couple sizes of scissors to a custom-made pincushion studded with pins. Her fingers wrapped almost subconsciously around her butterfly knife, watching with narrowed eyes as the trio began prattling among themselves as if picking up a conversation she and Priscilla had interrupted.
	Jazella cast Priscilla a glance, her brows raised, that asked if she was serious, when the tailors apparently decided it was time to pay them some attention.
	She shifted awkwardly as they eyed her thrift-store clothing and hoodie. She caught Priscilla’s look, and heeded it. The last thing she wanted was to tip off anyone else she was not from this world.
	Apparently satisfied--or maybe they just simply did not care--with Priscilla’s vague answers to their questions, they began throwing out terms and fabrics, some Jazelle caught and recognized, and others she could only offer blank stares to. At the mention of robes, Jazelle looked down at herself and the already light gray of her favorite garment, wondering what would become of it. Maybe she could sneak it back to her room and shove it in her backpack.
	Jazelle scowled as she remembered she had dropped her backpack back in the courtyard with the Necromancer.
	“As long as they’re comfortable. And have pockets,” she grumbled, moving her hands inside the muff in emphasis of pockets. She paused, and glanced to the wood-paneled floor. It had been years since she had had more of an option than what people had decided to donate. "Maybe hidden pockets?" She leaned forward, then stepped further into the room to get a better look.
	A few skeletal, wooden mannequins that looked handmade stood around the room, some draped with clothing in various stages of creation. Rolls of fabric, ribbon, and lace lined one wall. A couple sewing machines, the likes of which Jazelle had only seen in museums, waited against the far wall, an unfinished garment caught beneath the needle of one of them.
	“You’ve been doing this for a while, I take it?” she grumbled absently, looking to an elegant dress decorated with stones that glittered in the light filtering in through a large window taking up the top portion of the back wall.