<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Onneca de Goni<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>June 2, 1875<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Bodega de Goni<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Agatha<br/><hr/><br/>To hear Spanish words pronounced thus had a charm to it. Her dark eyes were drawn along every fray from toe to collar of the woman's dress, a mask of calm as she kept her thoughts about machine-made clothes to herself. Those power looms, a quarter of a million of them in England, were rapidly saturating the market with threadbare mail orders like this one. A woman's body deserved to be clothed well and comfortably, and a machine did neither. Machines were putting women like Onneca into the poorhouse all over. Ironic, almost, what had come bumping and jostling into Gomorra and her life.<br/><br/>Hair like heated copper caught her eye, and when she took a sharp inhale, a similar scent entered her lungs through the bodega's natural perfumes. Her eyes went big and round. Onto her knees she went, to help her customer gather up the things she'd dropped. The jar had survived with just a chip of personality put into it, still a perfectly good jar in these times and in this place. Onneca was not really looking at what she was doing, but trying to get a better look at the woman's face. Her fingers swept vaguely around, collecting purse spillage, mingling readily with Agatha's own fingers. "Lo siento,<sup>1</sup>the shelves are too close together."<br/><br/>How easily Onneca moved down to her knees, the seams of the skirt just so to allow her to bend and settle freely without risk of tripping. Stitching a pattern was the work of a seamstress. Understanding how the pieces fit together was the work of a dressmaker. Reinventing the way they flowed across a human body was the realm of just a few. The same wasn't true for a dress in a crinoline or a corset that prohibited the spine from movement. Onneca could sense that her customer was losing her balance, and reached tentatively to steady her. That compassionate touch was accompanied by a smile. When the shy tailor smiled truly, when her smile was a product of great joy and not just politeness, there were dimples in the corners. Hers was a distinctive face. It surprised her that Agatha Dunwich didn't recognize it.<br/><br/>"Aggy?" It could be heard even in her tone of voice that she was smiling, so deeply did it penetrate her. Heart thumping, her shyness agitated to the surface in a nervous shake, she could feel the weepy mood of her book returning in spades. For a moment she had to hush herself or all her words would come out squeaks. She was helping Agatha to stand, and could be seen to wonder at the lenses perched atop her head like a forgotten pencil. She had changed some. This relentless world had changed everybody.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Translations</div><div class="spoiler_body"><strong>1</strong>: I'm sorry</div></div>