A Moment Of Stitches

The next morning, I woke up to the gentle a knock on the door. A maid entered the room quietly, pulling the curtains open and allowing sunlight filter into the room.

"Good morning, Ms. Sinclair." The maid's voice was gentle. "Mr. Thorn has requested your presence. I've prepared your bath and laid out your clothes. Allow me to help you get ready for the day," she said with a polite smile, before guiding me to the bath.

Still groggy, I nodded, allowing her to assist me. The hot bath was soothing, and I winced slightly as the maid redressed my wounds.

Once I was cleaned up and dressed, the maid gestured toward the hallway. "Mr. Thorn is waiting for you downstairs," she said with a polite smile before turning back to tidy the room.

I followed the maid's directions, passing through a series of hallways that seemed to get brighter as I moved forward. The house was bigger than I had realized, and eventually, I found myself standing in front of a door that led out to a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows that opened into the backyard.

I paused, taking in the view. It was breathtaking. The yard was expansive, with perfectly trimmed hedges surrounding a lush garden filled with vibrant flowers and trees, their leaves dancing in the morning breeze. A pond glistened in the distance, its surface reflecting the soft light of the sun as small ripples spread across the water. Beyond the garden was a path leading to a small pavilion covered in ivy, where the sound of birds chirping filled the air.

I paused, taking in the view. It was breathtaking. The yard was expansive, with perfectly trimmed hedges surrounding a lush garden filled with vibrant flowers and trees, their leaves dancing in the morning breeze. A pond glistened in the distance, its surface reflecting the soft light of the sun as small ripples spread across the water. Beyond the garden was a path leading to a small pavilion covered in ivy, where the sound of birds chirping filled the air.

As I turned away from the window, my eyes landed on the walls surrounding me, and my breath hitched. They were covered in framed photographs and sketches of some of the greatest designers in the fashion world. I couldn't help but smile, recognizing each one instantly.

Right in front of me was a large portrait of Madeleine Vionnet, known as the queen of the bias cut. Her pioneering work with draping and cutting fabric on the bias transformed the way dresses fit the body, creating elegant, form-hugging silhouettes that no one had been able to replicate quite like her. I'd spent hours studying her work in fashion school, and seeing her honored here felt like being in the presence of royalty.

Next to Vionnet was Charles Frederick Worth, often referred to as the father of haute couture. His innovative use of luxurious fabrics and intricate hand stitching created garments that became the foundation of modern couture. I admired how he incorporated the triple-back stitch, a method he developed for reinforcing seams in ballgowns, which made them both durable and elegant—an accomplishment that had yet to be surpassed.

My eyes drifted to a smaller, yet equally significant, photo of Elsa Schiaparelli, her bold and surrealist designs always pushing boundaries. She had famously collaborated with Salvador Dalí on her iconic lobster dress, but what really made me nerd out was her invention of the zigzag stitch, a simple yet revolutionary technique that allowed for stretch and flexibility in garments while maintaining structure. No matter how many times I'd tried, I could never get my zigzag stitch to look as seamless as hers.

On the far end of the wall was Cristóbal Balenciaga, his photograph larger than the rest, as if demanding respect. He was renowned for his sculptural designs and mastery of volume and shape, but what truly set him apart was his one-of-a-kind masterpiece, the Infanta dress, inspired by Spanish royalty. It was said that even he could never recreate it the same way twice, a fact that had always left me in awe.

Further along, there was an image of Hubert de Givenchy, standing beside one of his most famous muses, Audrey Hepburn. Givenchy was revered for his machine stitching—so flawless that many had believed his gowns were hand-sewn. His mastery of the lockstitch was unparalleled, and he used it to create incredibly clean, precise seams, even in the most delicate fabrics. It made his pieces feel almost ethereal in their perfection.

And then, just above the door, hung a sketch of Azzedine Alaïa, the "King of Cling." He had revolutionized the fashion world with his intricate understanding of fabric tension and his ability to mold material to the body's curves using a continuous, invisible stitching technique known as the Alaïa stitch. The stitch allowed for garments to stretch and mold without losing their structure, and to this day, no one could replicate it with the same finesse.

I couldn't help but sigh, overwhelmed by the weight of fashion history surrounding me. These designers weren't just icons—they were legends. Each one had left an indelible mark on the industry, either by inventing new stitches, innovating machine techniques, or creating garments that no one could ever reproduce.

"This room…" I breathed, my fingers lightly tracing the frame of Vionnet's portrait. "This is incredible. All these designers… they're legends. Worth and his triple-back stitch, Schiaparelli's zigzag, Alaïa and his invisible stitching… I mean, these are the foundations of everything."

I smiled, feeling a warmth spread through me. "This is like a shrine to the gods of fashion. I never thought I'd see them all in one place."

But it wasn't the view that stole my breath—it was Sylus.

He stood shirtless in the middle of the room, his muscular back facing me, every inch of him focused on the task in front of him. A measuring tape hung loosely around his neck, and in his hands, he held a sketchbook, scribbling furiously with one hand while the other occasionally reached out to adjust the fabric pinned to the mannequin in front of him.

The mannequin before him wore a fabric I instantly recognized but had never seen in person: spider silk.

Spider silk—arguably the rarest and most delicate material in existence. Nearly impossible to harvest in large quantities, it was prized for its strength and lightness.

But it was also incredibly temperamental. One wrong move, and the entire fabric could tear. Only a few designers in the world dared to work with it.

Sylus wasn't just working with it; he was mastering it. He never uses a machine for his work. He did it all by hand.

He had several needles laid out on a nearby table—some I recognized immediately, others I could only marvel at. There were needles for hand-stitching, quilting needles, and milliner needles. But what drew my attention were the embroidery needles, specifically sized for intricate work. He was alternating between sizes 10 and 12—an incredibly fine switch for something so delicate. His hands moved swiftly, like a practiced dance, each needle serving a different purpose.

First, he used a size 10 to create what looked like a simple running stitch, but as I watched closer, I realized it wasn't simple at all. He was layering the stitches in a way I'd never seen before—a mix between tambour embroidery and something akin to Sashiko, a Japanese stitching technique. I swallowed hard. No one outside the old couture houses even attempted something like that.

I stepped closer, mesmerized by his precision. He switched needles in the blink of an eye, going from a size 10 to an 11 with the flick of his wrist. His fingers were strong, yet gentle, holding the needle with such care that it never once threatened the integrity of the spider silk. I could see the sweat on his brow as he leaned in, focusing intently on a particularly tricky section of the fabric.

The room was filled with nothing but the sound of the needle passing through the silk and the faint scratch of his pencil as he made corrections to the sketches on the sketchpad. And oh, that sketchpad—it wasn't made of regular paper. It was vellum, the kind used centuries ago for its durability and smoothness, allowing for incredibly detailed drawings. Each stroke of his pencil seemed deliberate, controlled, as if he already knew exactly how the fabric would behave before it even touched the mannequin.

I found myself staring, completely lost in watching him work. There was something captivating about seeing someone so in tune with their craft.

His voice broke through my reverie. "Are you going to stand there all day and stare, or are you going to perform your assistant duties?"

My cheeks flushed at being caught. I stepped forward, my eyes still glued to his work. "No matter how many times I see you working like this, it's always incredible."

Sylus chuckled softly, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. "Flattery's not going to get you out of work today. Grab a scone and join me."

I smiled, but as I moved toward the table, I was distracted by something far more exciting—his collection of needles. I could barely contain my enthusiasm as I ran my fingers over them, my mind instantly identifying each one. There were gold-plated embroidery needles—size 10, perfect for fine stitching—platinum-tipped quilting needles, and even a rare titanium needle that I knew could withstand the tension of tougher fabrics.

I picked up one of the platinum-tipped needles, turning it over in my hand. "These are so expensive. How do you even get your hands on these?" I whispered in awe, tracing the delicate point with my fingertip.

When I turned around, I froze. Sylus was watching me with a small smile, his expression unreadable. My face grew hotter, and I quickly put the needle down.

He held up his sketchpad. "Alright, Ms. Sinclair. Time to get to work."

I stepped closer, examining the sketch. He had designed a stunning gown, but I immediately noticed a few things that could be improved. I pointed at the waistline. "The calculation's off by half an inch here. You'll need a thinner needle, probably a size 12, to keep the seams neat without pulling the fabric too much. Also," I gestured to the hemline, "if you want a cleaner finish, a double backstitch would work better than the running stitch you're using. It'll be stronger, and you won't risk tearing the silk."

Sylus raised an eyebrow, glancing between me and the sketch. "A double backstitch, huh?"

"Trust me," I said confidently.

He didn't hesitate. He grabbed the size 12 needle and threaded it in one swift motion, his fingers moving like lightning as he applied the corrections. As he worked, I couldn't help but feel a rush of pride at seeing my suggestions come to life under his hands.

When he finished, he looked up at me with a smirk. "And that's why you're my assistant, Ms. Sinclair."