Atropos smirked, and Lachesis smiled, the one pulling the door open ("Don't panic, I've got it subdued.") as the other rested a maternal hand on Lyra's shoulder and guided her into the shop.
There was a kind of organised chaos to the store's interior. Clothing hung on racks, ordered neatly by size and type, but you were as likely to find a band t-shirt from the eighties as you were a Victorian bodice or a barely-worn last-season sweater, and might well find all three hanging side-by-side. The same went for the books, which ranged from well-worn teen novels to hefty nonfiction tomes to (curiously) not one, but two Korean-language translations of Fifty Shades of Grey. Knick-knacks of every size filled the shelves, with larger pieces of furniture squeezed in wherever possible with expert-level Tetris-style manoeuvring and artwork hanging on every available piece of wall-space.
Clotho was seated at the counter, sorting through a box of old books that the last customer had brought in. She looked up, not so much surprised, but a little startled by the amount of blood.
"Nosebleed," Lachesis explained simply. "Clo, would you mind getting her a glass of water? Oh, and a damp cloth, I think."
"On it!" Clotho stood, adding, with a sympathetic smile for Lyra as she passed, "You can take my chair."