New York City is enormous, with all its boroughs and suburbs. Eight and a half million people live there, millions more visit and despite it all, some places have remained largely unchanged for the past fifty, sixty, seventy years or more.

I know the city. I've been here thirty years now. One thing you learn quickly is that you will never know all there is to know about it.

As a tailor/costume designer for a major Broadway production company, I find myself all over the map. Part of my job is to find material to suit all sorts of needs. A lot of what you may have seen on stage over the years came from my mind, and in some cases, directly from my hands. I love cloth, and I adore forming it into intricacies that defied what the creators of the bolts of cottons, brocades, and wools ever dreamt of it becoming.

As I have been working in the same place for such a long time, I thought I knew everything we had in stock. We went through a lot mind you, but I had a pretty good memory for such things. It did me little good to need a bolt of material if we didn't have it on hand, and then we were often in need of it yesterday. So when I sent one of my assistants to gather up all the silks we had, I was stunned to see in the pile a finely woven roll of fabric that had a layer of dust on it.

It was gossamer thin, and yet so tightly woven that you could have used it in a parachute.  It was almost transparent, and yet so strong that just trying to tear it at the edge produced no damage. I unrolled part of it and found it as unblemished as could be. There wasn't a single imperfection in the weave no matter how hard I looked.

“Annalee?"

“Yes?"

“Where did you find this?"

“In the silks section, just like you asked. It was under the cabinets, tucked away with a few other random rolls of material."

I was impressed with what I was looking at. A princess might have a gown crafted from it, but it would never do for any lesser person. While we made some elaborate costuming here, such fine silk as this would have cost a fortune. I was pretty sure it hadn't been bought on my rigid budgeting plan. I went ahead and continued unrolling it until I got to the end, when an aged and yellowed card fell from the folds. It was neatly printed, and it had a business name and address on it.

The name was quite odd, at least for the age I supposed it to be. In distinctive lettering it said All Others B. Neith Silks. There was an address, which was not in a section of town I would have considered industrial, but then with the age of the card, it may have once been more than it was today. Even then I was correcting myself. I wasn't familiar with the neighborhood, but from what I knew it was mostly older brownstones, nestled together like nervous sheep.

I assumed that B. Neith was the owner's name, and I grabbed my cell phone and tried running the name through Google. I got nothing back, which I thought was a little weird. I dug out a telephone book, and again, struck out. As old as the card appeared, I suppose I wasn't too surprised. Whoever they were, they likely died years ago. However, I recalled seeing an old directory for the borough in question, sitting on a self somewhere in the sewing room. I searched it out, found it, and despite the fact that it was fifteen years out of date, I opened it to the N section and surprisingly, found a Neith, B. listed at the same address as the card. The funny thing was, it was in the residential section of the book, not the commercial one.

The following weekend, with the old business card in hand, I drove to the neighborhood, cruised down the street listed, and found the address easily enough. Parking was a problem, and finally finding a space a few blocks away, I returned to the row of nearly identical buildings. It was a quiet neighborhood, but not without its problems apparently, for the telephone poles were plastered with notices for neighborhood watches, missing pets, and runaways. Of course, this was New York. Every such pole was festooned with signs of all sorts.

The building was much like any other on the street; three stories tall, slightly aged and coated in a light film of dirt and lichens. Despite this the windows were dressed in neat and clean curtains which spoke of a fastidious owner.

What amazed me even more, though, was the burnished brass plague next to the door.

“B. Neith"

There was an intercom, and not getting my hopes up, I pushed the button. I could hear a muted buzz on the inside, so I waited. I was just about to walk away when I heard an answer.

“Yes? Who's there?"

The voice was female, though the accent was a bit unfamiliar.

“I'm sorry to bother you. I was looking for someone who makes cloth. Silk cloth. The name on the card is the same as on your nameplate."

“Card? I haven't used cards for a very long time. How did you receive one?"

“It fell out of an old bolt of silk where I work."

“Is that so? How curious. I don't sell to the general public anymore mister…"

“Martin. Robert Martin. Are you telling me you still make them? How long have you been in business?"

There was a pause.

“Mr. Martin. I keep myself very busy. I do not have time to idly chat. If you are truly interested, come back in two day's time.  That will allow me to get the parlor cleaned enough to entertain a guest. I simply do not have unexpected company dropping in on me anymore, but I have as much curiosity about how you have one of my cards as I presume you are about the material it was secreted in."

“Yes. Two days. Same time?"

“If you wish. I am an early riser, so if you come sooner, there will be no inconvenience to me."

“I will return then!"

The intercom went dead. I stood back on the street to get a good look at the place again. It was a seemingly quiet neighborhood, and for the life of me I could not picture a mechanized loom inside there. For one, there was no suitable power lines. Secondly, I would have thought that a place that made such fine silk goods would be renown. She alluded that she didn't sell “to the general public", which brought to mind the matter of to whom she did sell her wares. That was going to be one of a hundred questions I was going to pose.

The next two days found me busy enough that I thankfully didn't have time to dwell on the issue. I reserved the roll of silk to my office, for I didn't want to waste such fine cloth on mere stage costumes. Outside of that, I put in double the effort and stayed late to allow me to have the morning off to go visit that brownstone again.

The morning of, I had breakfast and then made my way to the neighborhood again. I didn't know how hospitable my host might prove to be, so I didn't want to impose in any way. I rang the bell, and instead of the intercom, the door was opened by a figure clad from head to toe in silks. I couldn't see much of her face, but her hair was black and she seemed to have just a touch of a widow's peak.

“Mr. Martin I assume."

“Indeed. And you are Mrs. Neith?"

“I generally have answered to Neith. An honorific denoting my marital status would make it Miss I suppose, but such intricacies of the language are for others to debate."

“Just Neith? That seems a little odd."

“And is not Martin also a first name? Do not decry what you are simply unfamiliar with."

“Touché. I didn't mean any disrespect. To be honest, I didn't even think I would find anything or anyone here."

“Well, you have. I believe we will find the sitting room more relaxing than the doorway. Will you come in?"

I stepped inside to find a rather plainly decorated front hallway. To one side was a well-lit room that showed signs of a recent overhaul. I had to guess she didn't have many visitors, and felt the place needed tidying up. As it was, the style and age of the furniture struck me as peculiar. It was very much Middle Eastern, perhaps from Morocco or Egypt. I could well imagine it being the same age as the building if not even older.

I sat down, and she offered me a cup of fragrant tea. I took it and leaned back against my chair.

“You live here all alone?"

“I do. There are occasionally others here, but my work tends to consume me and I don't take the time to be a conversationalist. How does the saying go? Eat and run?"

I chuckled.

“That's me most of the time."

“Really. What is it you do?"

“Costume design mostly. For Broadway productions and the occasional custom design piece for special clients."

“Special clients? I think you might say that all of my clients are special these days. And speaking of that, did you bring the card you said you found?"

“I did," I replied as I pulled out my wallet and extracted it.

She took it in her hand, which is when I first noticed she was polydactyl. She wore gloves with six fingers each. I wasn't sure if that was a bane or a boon when it came to weaving. Each one moved naturally, so it hardly answered my question. It wasn't a question I thought wise to verbalize.

“How very odd," she said as she gazed at the card. “I would say it is one of mine, but it is dark with age and thus must be from long ago. There is a box of them in one of the closets that are likely as yellowed as this one."

“So you inherited the business?"

“There is a certain amount of secrecy surrounding what I do. I feel you are eager to learn, and I would normally find that refreshing, but I simply cannot tell you too much of my history."

“Can you tell me about the silks?"

“What is there to know? Silk is silk. A good weaver takes it in her hands and allows her heart to tell her how it wishes to be woven."

“You do it all by hand?"

“I do. Automated machinery is unfeeling. Yes, you can produce much more doing by that means, but the end product is lifeless and limp."

“I see you wear a lot of it yourself."

“Yes. I suppose it looks extreme to you. Call it a matter of religion if you will, but I prefer to keep covered in the presence of visitors."

“I see. From your accent I would judge you as being from…Egypt perhaps?"

“Very good! That is where I started my career, if you will."

“I thought they were better known for their cottons."

“Cotton is fine to work with, but as I see it, it has its limitations. You have to connect so many individual fibers to make a thread."

“What about wool?"

She shivered a little.

“Wool is too course and vulgar for me to work with. I prefer to deal with materials I know are pure and clean."

I took a sip from my cup. It was a good black tea overlain with the flavor of mint. I found it foreign to my tastes, but something I could easily grow used to.

“Well, be that as it may, I have to work with all sorts of fabrics. Some of them are far easier to handle than others, but I can't really offer an opinion from the manufacturing side of it. The roll I have from here is certainly fit for making a wedding gown for the finest of royalty."

“Why thank you Mr. Martin. This house has always prided itself on creating the finest silks possible. But is that really what drew you to my abode? An old roll of silk?"

“Yes. You see, I thought I knew every company and craftsmen for a hundred miles. I have a log of over 300 hundred manufacturers worldwide and I had never head mention of this place even once. It's not even on the web!"

“Web?" she asked with keen interest.

“The internet. You know, the World Wide Web. You should have a site, or sell on Etsy, or some similar place."

“Oh, that thing you do with your computers. I see your point. You feel I could do more business if I made myself available to more people. But as I said, I don't sell to the public, so all I would gain would be fame I have no desire to have. Maybe once, but no longer."

“Can I see where you work?"

“Not today Mr. Martin. I am happy to answer a few more of your questions, but I am losing valuable time talking, so I would prefer your queries to be more academic."

“Ok. Um, where do you get your raw silk from?"

I could see her smile under her veil.

“Now that is a good question. Sadly, it is one I will not answer. To do so would undermine all that I do here."

“Trade secrets. I understand. Is everything you're wearing done by your hand?"

“That is correct. I find the loom to be an extension of myself. I'm in my own world when I'm weaving. I suppose much like you when you take material and create something new from it."

“I'm sure there is an affinity there. I find it rewarding to draw out concepts and then make them into something real."

“Draw out…on paper?"

“Yes, I do still use paper, but there are computer programs that generate my ideas in three dimensions."

“Hmmm. I may have to investigate purchasing a computer. I never really had an interest before, but you are enlightening me to their possible uses. If you would accept an invitation to return, could you bring some of your sketches? It is rare that I encounter another artisan and I would be most obliged to share in what you do."

“You honestly don't have a computer? What about a telephone?"

“I have a functional telephone, though I am sure that by now it would be considered outmoded."

“I looked for your telephone number and couldn't find it."

“As I have been alluding to all along, I rather find I like my privacy. You have been the exception to the rule."

“I see. You are a bit of a recluse, aren't you?"

“Yes, I suppose I am. I don't notice really. I keep so busy I tend to forget that I should interact with others a little more often, if just to keep my social skills current."

I laughed good-naturedly.

“I might not be the best man for the job. I don't get out much either. All I do is work, work, work."

“I see. Then perhaps we should take some time out of our busy days and learn about each other. I understand your work, though I haven't seen a play in ages. I think the last might have been Phantom of the Opera. Such a good story, that."

She hadn't been out much. I wasn't even certain when the last showing of the Phantom had been. That's the problem with keeping current; the old stuff just got forgotten, no matter how good it had been.

I stood.

“I thank you for your time Neith. Shall we do this again, same time, same day, next week?"

“As happens to be convenient for you. Your presence has stirred me to clean up the place. I find myself so focused I fail to look after myself. I think I shall tidy up the larder, and sweep clean any random webs from the corners. It would hardly do to have an unkempt house when one invites in a guest."

“Don't go to too much trouble. I'm more interested in what you can do than how clean your house is."

“Most kind I am sure. Still, a lady cannot allow herself to show her slovenly side. Next week then, and don't be late!"

The next week I showed her my portfolio sketches and renderings and she showed me her loom. I know what the old-fashioned, hand operated machines looked like, and the one she had was exceptional. In fact, it rather looked complicated enough to require two to operate it. She explained that it was the smaller of the looms she had, but she liked the cozy feel of it. It had everything but the threads to start weaving with. I remarked on that lack because I found it odd that she didn't have something already started.

“You are correct. I tend to work on a skein until I finish it. It makes for better continuity. I prefer my work to be as flawless as possible. I even had one seamstress tell me she hated to take a scissors to the pieces I made. There is no better compliment than that."

Around the room were bolts of finished silks, and they all had one thing in common. They were undyed, and I mentioned this to her because I was curious about it. Colored silks were quite lovely.

“Yes, they are all natural. That is the way I do it. My customers are welcome to add colors as they see fit, but I will put nothing into them but that which comes naturally, unless I am making it for my personal use."

“You definitely do things your own way. Can I ask how much your work goes for?"

“You can, but I will not answer. Call it client privilege. Needless to say, it fetches a high price in the correct markets. Which brings me back to your bolt. I have never sold one anywhere in New York City. I find it odd that one was found in such a place as yours."

“I can't explain it. My assistant found it hidden away with the other silks."

“Yes. That is odd. We may have to get to the bottom of this little mystery."

“Speaking of mysteries, your business name. All Other's B. Neith?"

She chuckled.

“A recommendation from long ago. The silks made here are so far superior to others that all of them are beneath the quality of this house."

“Ahh. A play off your name then."

“Just so. I say Mr. Martin," she said with a chuckle and what could have been construed as a purr. “I do like your companionship. We seem to share an affinity for good cloth. You should join me for dinner sometime."

“I'm game. What did you have in mind?"

“I am very much withdrawn from the social scene. I will let you decide. I am rather inured to having my meals come to me, and not the other way around."

“Delivery? That would get old."

“Yes, there comes a point when it becomes a dull routine. Delivery persons tend to be rather commonplace and unimaginative and thus of no use to me conversationally."

“I'll do my best to think of something that'll make it interesting."

I could sense she was smiling.

“Your company has been more stimulating than any of the others who have come here over the years, even if your presence was unexpected and initially unwanted. I see that happenstance has been very kind to me. Not once have you remarked upon my eccentricities. That is more refreshing than you can know. I will have my eyes poised for your return."

I felt it was the closest thing to a come-on I was going to get from her, and to be honest, I was curious if I was going to see what there was hidden beneath all the folds of her clothing. Silks or not, it was hard to tell if she had an hourglass figure concealed under there, or if she was merely a bit dumpy from her lack of exercise. Regardless of my musings, I was letting her make the moves. I don't know why I was so interested, but she did seem to be exceptional in what she did. Exceptional people were rare. And I wasn't precisely a young man anymore. Someone closer to my age seemed more suitable than the nymphets that I make costumes for.

For our next meeting, I chose a fashionable bistro in the theatre district which I was familiar with and one where her odd garb would be overlooked as belonging to this or that ongoing production. I was going to head over early to make certain that we had time for the trip to and from the restaurant. I was doing my best to make a good impression on her, much as she seemed to be making on me.

When I got to her abode that next week, she opened the door before I could even or hit the intercom button.

“Hello Mr. Martin. I have been looking forward to this day with high expectations."

The sexuality she was exuding was almost palpable; like you could grab a fiber of it and draw it out like thread. She was still wearing her silks, but the way she held her body showed anticipation. It was as though she had allowed built up sexual tension to overflow.

“And I as well. I have us booked to a nice place off of Broadway."

“Wonderful! However, since you are here so early, I thought perhaps we might…get to know each other a little more intimately."

“And what are you suggesting?"

She sighed longingly.

“Meeting you has shown me that living entirely alone has its drawbacks as well as its advantages. One of them is the lack of physical contact. I find I have cravings long suppressed and meeting you has allowed them to surface. I think perhaps a little rendezvous before my meal might heighten the experience all the more."

I could smell a perfume on the air, and after a moment, I deduced it was something very old fashioned; attar of roses. It made sense as it would be something familiar from home. She led me to the back on the building, where I followed her into a darkened bedroom. There were a few candles, and interspersed here and there a glowing censer, giving off heady fumes from the incense burning inside.

I had to say, this was a first for me.

“Mr. Martin, if I could coax you to undress and await me in bed, I will take the time to do a belly dance for you. I always liked the sensual undulations of it, and it has been so long since I have had reason to perform it. I might be a little out of practice, but I think you will not mind."

I didn't even reply. I dropped my clothing and climbed on top of the sheets. Like everything else here, they were of fabulous silk and as smooth and as sheer as possible. The four-poster frame was also draped in it, making the bed a cozy little cocoon.

In the dim light, I could see her moving, and bit by bit the layers came off. She was certainly in no hurry to be finished. There was no music to this performance, but it hardly needed any. I did occasionally blink against the dimness of my surroundings and the smoky atmosphere, for my sight began to blur against the combination. On the other hand, I really didn't seem to mind. I was feeling relaxed and complacent, sort of like I was drifting on a pharmacological high. I hadn't experimented in that realm in ages but I recalled the sensation.

She was murmuring now and while indistinct, I felt she was singing some old song from her homeland. While not material suitable for any five-star production, it still had a fascinating quality to it. It seemed to add to the calm I was experiencing.

And all the while the layers kept coming off.

My eyes lost focus, and I began seeing double, which under normal circumstances would have alarmed me. Under the influence as I was; whatever it was; I found it only added an extra dimension to her performance. The silks continued to fall to the floor, and as she twirled and wove through the room, her arms took on double the ability at doffing them.  I found myself amused by how many she seemed to have piled on for there to be such a supply to remove.

Eventually it seemed that she found the dance to have run its course. I was feeling a bit sleepy, thought I was still attentive to everything she was doing. She neared the bed, holding on to the bottom posts as she leaned in towards me.

“What did you think Mr. Martin?"

“That was lovely!"

“I'm so glad you approve. I find dancing can be just as creative as weaving, for the movements can be very much the same. In one, you weave silk. In the other, you weave your emotions. For me, they end up being much the same. They are all a part of who I am."

“And who is that, it I might be so bold?"

“I am Neith. I have always been Neith. From centuries ago, though I have mostly been forgotten. I have a few loyalists left, and they suffice."

“Centuries?" I asked blankly.

“Yesssss," she replied a bit too sibilantly. “I am she who is the supreme weaver. And it has been long since I had a suitable mate."

I was going to question the mate part, but I was realizing that my eyes weren't as obfuscated as I first thought.

Or hoped.

There were two sets of arms supporting her as she held onto the posts.

Two. Each with three fingers…or claws.

I was trying to find words. Either the horror of the situation or the thick atmosphere was blocking my brain from responding. She seemed to sense my dismay.

“The incense is rich in myrrh…and opium. Together they sooth and dull the mind. After all, how much fun can a coupling be if the male remains timid of his partner during the whole mating?"

It wasn't her aspect that was terrifying to me. I mean, it should have, as she moved in closer, No, it wasn't the eyes that now seemed dark; nor the fact that her legs now seemed to have split into pairs. Nor did my brain dwell on the fact that all of these things were impossible. Somewhere in a back corner of my addled mind I found the idea of sex with this…woman…to be an incredibly unique opportunity.

It was the logical part of it that screamed out one of the few lessons on arachnids that I recalled. And that was what was nagging at me.

Some female spiders, upon concluding their sexual tryst, consumed the male as a part of the afterglow of their pairing. And she did seem interested in eating after we had bedded each other