"Always ask questions," Alastor admonished like he was scolding a child. Deftly, he plucked one of the dresses from the pile in her arms, the faded red, and held it up in front of him. Sound hummed and clicked from his throat, the same static reverb that was nearly always there, no matter what form he took.

He shook the fabric once, and it made a sharp whump of sound in the air, like a flag or a tablecloth unfurling. "Not like this," he said, colour seeping from his fingertips on the shoulders of the dress, and back into its fabric. It slowly traveled down the length of the garment, and where the colour spread, the seams tightened, the buttons shone. "They're quite different, you'll have to see it."

Truly, how could he describe it? It would be like describing a forest to someone who had only ever seen a smattering of trees littered in independent copses across the prairie. "Tall, grand, by all accounts. The colour may frighten you."

He snapped the dress in the air again, and passed it back to Lotte with a smug smile. "There's one for the road."