Clothes

The bell over the boutique door chimed as Clio swept inside the boutique, her arrival bracing as a gust of cold wind. Mortals glanced up instinctively, as though someone had opened a window.

Lily followed behind her, letting the door close softly. She always felt a half-step behind her sister, not because she couldn’t keep pace, but because Clio moved through the world like she owned it. Lily preferred to observe. She was too easily hurt and embarrassed to barrel ahead, unbothered like Clio. 

The shop smelled faintly of roses and pressed linen, and all of the expensive things that Clio loved. Mannequins stood along the front window in draped silks, heads tilted. The mirrored walls scattered Clio’s reflection into a dozen bold stances, while Lily’s own image lingered just behind, softer, harder to catch.

Clio wasted no time.
“Tragic,” she announced, planting herself before the nearest mannequin in a pale sheath. “It looks like she’s about to deliver a eulogy.”

“Clio,” Lily murmured, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward.

“No, really. If I wanted to watch someone suffocate in beige, I’d visit the archives.” Clio’s eyes flicked toward a mortal woman near the racks, her tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And that one, look at the hem. Is it uneven on purpose. What are the mortals even doing these days?”

Lily sighed and drifted toward a rack of dresses in muted blues and creams. The fabrics slid coolly under her fingertips, smooth as river water. She liked these quiet colors. Clio would call them dull, but to Lily they felt peaceful.

“You’re already picking things that make you look like a professor’s favorite pupil, aren’t you?” Clio called, plucking up a crimson dress with scandalous cutouts. She held it against her frame and tilted her chin toward the mirror, smirking at her own daring.

“At least I’d pass the class,” Lily said, forcing nonchalance into her voice.

Clio grinned. “Darling, anyone in their right mind would force you to fail just so they could keep you after class." 

Lily rolled her eyes, heat creeping traitorously into her cheeks. That was Clio’s way, barbs polished until they glittered, equal parts mockery and affection, needling her into being seen.

Clio did not browse so much as hunt. She stalked through the racks with the precision of a general surveying a battlefield, plucking garments free and draping them across her arm. Sequins were dismissed with a sharp flick of her fingers. Anything too plain was banished immediately. Within moments she had assembled a load of bold silks, crimson and emerald, structured jackets with sharp shoulders, even a scandalous pair of high-waisted leather trousers that would have made their sisters gasp.

Lily, trailing in her wake, moved differently. She let her hand rest lightly against fabrics, testing the weight of them, listening in a way Clio never needed to. Color meant something to her. She was drawn to the muted blues, creams, deep greens. They were pieces that softened rather than sharpened. A long dress in dove-gray caught her eye, its neckline modest, its skirt falling like water. She lifted it carefully, imagining how it might move if she dared to twirl.

“You’re hopeless,” Clio said, suddenly at her elbow. “That dress looks like you’re auditioning to be the patron saint of librarians.”

Lily snorted, though she pressed the hanger closer to her chest. “Not all of us feel the need to have our fashion choices scream look at me!” 

“It doesn’t have to scream,” Clio said, “but for gods’ sake, it should at least whisper something.” She brandished her trousers like a weapon. “This whispers: dangerous. That..." she pointed to Lily’s dress, "whispers: boring.”

“Some people like librarians.”

“You are not a librarian. You’re a Muse.”

The words landed with more weight than Clio probably intended. Lily turned the dress over in her hands, brushing her thumb against the smooth fabric. She knew Clio meant it as encouragement. But sometimes it felt like pressure, like she was failing if she wanted to be subtle. 

Lily picked out a few pieces for herself while Clio handed her a stack of clothes that were less outrageous than her own selections, but still nothing Lily would have chosen on her own. She gave Clio a soft smile and nod of thanks.

She followed Clio toward the dressing rooms, each of them carrying an armful of contradictions.

The dressing stalls were separated by thin walls and heavy curtains. Lily stepped into hers, dropping her pile onto the little bench. The overhead light glared mercilessly, and the mirror felt uncomfortably close.

She began with the gray dress, slipping it over her head. The fabric cooled against her skin, falling in smooth lines, and when she turned slightly she caught the way it moved like water, exactly as she’d imagined. For a heartbeat, she felt… graceful. Almost enough to forget herself.

Then she noticed her shoulders. Too narrow. Her arms, too pale. The dress didn’t hide those truths, and suddenly the grace was gone. She wrapped her arms around herself, willing the mirror to blur.

From the other stall, Clio’s voice rang out.
“If you picked black again, I’ll throttle you.”

“It’s gray,” Lily called back, then winced at how defensive she sounded.

“Gray? Darling, even worse. You’re not going to haunt the mortal courts. You need something that says I will ruin your life and you’ll thank me for it.”

Lily bit back a laugh. “Not all of us want to ruin lives.”

“Then what’s the point?” A rustle of fabric, then Clio’s voice dropped into mock theatrics. “Oh, tragedy! The Muse of Epic Poetry reduced to oatmeal chic. Our sisters will mourn her absence of taste.”

Lily laughed despite herself, the sound startling in the small stall. She reached for another dress. This one a soft blue, lighter than she’d usually dare, and tried it on. The color warmed her skin, brought her eyes forward. She turned slowly, studying the reflection. She didn’t look like anyone else. She looked like herself, but brighter, as though she’d stepped out of shadow.

“Show me,” Clio demanded.

“No.”

“Then I’ll come in.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Lily opened the curtain a crack, peeking into the hallway. Clio was standing there in the crimson cutout dress, posing shamelessly before her mirror. She looked like a siren in silk, daring the world to challenge her.

“You’re impossible,” Lily muttered, stepping out just enough to be seen.

Clio’s eyes swept over her, sharp and assessing. Then her expression softened, the wit retreating just a little. “Better,” she said. 

Heat pricked Lily’s cheeks again. She ducked back inside, pretending she needed to adjust the hem.

From the other side of the wall, Clio’s voice came quieter now. “You hide too much, Lily. You act like the world doesn’t want to look at you, but it does. You just never let it.”

Lily sat on the bench, smoothing the fabric over her knees. She wanted to argue, to say that being overlooked was safer. But the words tangled in her throat.

She tried on one more dress, this one a deep green Clio had shoved at her. When she stepped out again, Clio gave a low whistle. “There she is. If you wore that, mortals would write novels about your curves.”

Lily rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yes,” Clio said serenely, striking another pose. “But correct.”

By the time they finished, they both carried bags, though Clio’s haul was larger by far. She swung them dramatically as though the weight were a burden inflicted upon her by fate itself.

“I’ll have back problems by tomorrow,” she announced to the street. “A martyr to fashion.”

“You bought half the shop,” Lily said, adjusting her smaller bundle.

“Sacrifices must be made.” Clio lifted her chin, striding into the evening crowd. Mortals parted around her without realizing why, drawn into the orbit of her command. She raised one hand in a mock salute. “Behold! The Muse of History descends in silk and scandal.”

Lily shook her head, but when Clio glanced back expectantly, she gave a little bow of her own, as though acknowledging invisible applause.

For a moment, she allowed herself to enjoy their banter, the weight of new fabric in her hands, the ordinary mortal bustle around them. A life small enough to fit into an afternoon, one that belonged only to them.