fluttering your lashes like ashes and embers

The clothing Lotte withdrew from the dresser looked a sad picture of the whole affair. Alastor didn't take much note of the other things, the paraphernalia and artifacts of her magical practice. Those looked the same no matter where you went, really - the same bundles of herbs and globs of wax and well-worn sheets of notes. That is, when you were speaking to someone who had half an ounce of serious intent in them. It wasn't anything new.

But the dresses, pale as her arms and thin as her frame, were a different story. Those painted the picture of someone hard done by and under appreciated, someone who had never had much and made what she could of what she had. It was the picture of someone who cared more for her work than for her vanity, someone who prioritized survival over the sort of artifice that, ironically, might have enabled her to do more than survive - to thrive.

How unlike Alastor himself, in life. It amused him.

He took another long drag from the cigarette, poured himself another shot of whiskey, and gulped it down. This, alone, was doing a heavy part to make him feel more himself. Still, something like hunger burned at the bottom of his being. He stood, a slow and steady motion, and crossed the floor to Lotte, ran his fingers over the weave of the fabric in her arms. "It's hard to imagine you want these," he mused, the cigarette burning near its end. He snapped his fingers and it vanished in the air between them. "But of course you can. Your wish is my command, isn't it? The house is yours."