# Chapter 9
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Mystery was right when he said the tailoring room was comfy. The windows above made the room an accidental greenhouse; it warmed Polly as she watched him work, dust spiraling around him. He turned a lint-covered, tartan fleece blanket into a skirt, all in one---uncomfortably quiet---morning. Sewing was probably the only task Mystery kept quiet with, enough to let her do the talking. Every time she thought of something to say, however, memories of last night sprung up---then the bad memories. Was he still evil? Was this her new life? Why did she still feel a tingling need to run? Best not bother him with her confusion---he wasn't the right person to talk to, anyway.

"Polly."

"Hm?" She snapped out of her trance to look at him; his face showed a tenderness only seen in old people---maybe one of accomplishment.

"Gimme the iron, I finished it." Once it was in his hand, he hurried to press the whole skirt, front then back. "Try it on, I think it's just the right size."

The upper half of her thighs warmed up underneath the fabric---it was heavier than expected, but a tolerable kind of heavy. A fist was all the pockets could fit, bulging out the red-and-blue pattern that matched her shirt. In front of a mirror, she spun around---one, two, three times---to watch the skirt rise and glide down with grace.

"It looks really good on you." Mystery came from behind to pat her shoulders, looking at her reflection. "Don't you think?"

"I do like it," she said, with a smile. "Thank you, Mysty."

"Mysty?"

"Yeah, short for Mystery."

He giggled, almost like a flustered girl. "If I'm Mysty, you're Dolly."

"Why Dolly?"

"Because," he petted her head, "you're my little doll."

"Hmmm. A fair exchange," she faked an elegant tone, turning to offer a handshake.

A firm handshake he gave, but his grasp lingered after; he rubbed a thumb over her smaller fingers. "Welcome to St. James Hospital. May you have a prosperous career, Madame Dolly."

She snorted. "*Madame* Dolly?"

"What? You are a grown woman, right? I didn't just hire some random kid off the street."

"You know what you did, Doctor."

By surprise, Mystery swooped her up to face him; she sat on his hands and clung to his shoulders. "You should call me Doctor again," he said.

"Eh? Why?"

"It makes me feel happy."

"Okay, Doctor Mystery, I will."

"Thank you."

After a peck to the lips, she blushed. "No, thank *you.*"

In silence, they stared into each other's eyes. Maybe someday, Polly thought, she would've gotten used to this kind of attention---the kind that drove men to do either terrible or beautiful things. Maybe this was the time for her to learn how to love, no longer as just a daughter or a friend, but a wife. Still, as long as there was someone to care for her, she was happy enough; if pleasing Mystery was the way to get that, then so was it.