Greg did not usually deal with customers unless they were there to order something specific or had brought in something to be repaired. But he could hardly ignore one that spoke to him directly while he was setting out a pair of delicate Queen Anne chairs that had finally come back in from the upholstorers.
Wood work was his forte, not needle and thread, so once cushioned things were repaired and strengthened, they went out to Mrs. Ferguson's cousins who did do needle and thread. The old birds were even more odd and twisted than his employer, but who was he to be unduly offended by people who had more than a little Dark in their blood. Stones and glass houses and all that rot.
Sighing, he shook away his wandering thoughts and turned toward the sorta-familiar voice. His eyes widened slightly in recognition when he saw the little, flighty blonde. "These are the only ones that're complete," he said a beat too late to be smooth. But then he'd never been accused of being particularly smooth any more than he'd been accused of having too many brains.