It wasn’t like the first time Ohel Todesfel had to deal with innovations in his attire. Shirts with sewn in collars and cuffs, and zippers had all given him pause, but he’d mastered them, eventually. There were advantages to wash-and-wear fabrics and polyester-blends. The moths didn’t much like them, and they meant he never looked too shabby as he went about his business.
His servants had left a suit, dress shirt, and conservative tie; the style of men's suits had barely changed since the 1890s other than trim and widgets, even though the shirts and undergarments had. They left some more casual clothes, that Todesfel thought looked like something railway or canal navies should have worn, but he trusted that the hirelings understood the vagaries of taste better than he. He slipped the dark denim trousers on, and the light, stretchy cotton shirt that slipped over his head. It conformed to his lean and sinewy torso well, and he guessed that was probably part of what made it acceptable wear; foolish men always preened one way or another.
He walked over to the door, once he was dressed, then paused. “Foolish me,” he said to himself, I forgot my jacket.”
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