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[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Afternoon, 25 Vortas, 2718
Feldspar Tailoring, The Stacks

There was, Niccolette thought, a good deal of blood on the outermost layer of the silk. She and Uzoji had done their best with the two handkerchiefs, but it had made very little difference in the end. She was still breathing a little hard, her field slowly relaxing in the air around her, the last of its sigiling fading; the smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the alley, tickling her nose.

“Flood it,” Uzoji said, rising with a grimace. He wiped his knives clean with the bloodied handkerchiefs, dropped them to the floor of the alley and set them alight with a few words. “Can’t be saved, beloved.”

Niccolette shrugged, and left behind the hours the fitting had taken, wrote them off as if they had been nothing. “It is only a dress,” she reached out and took Uzoji’s hand in hers. “You were cut?” She let go and touched the slit in his waistband, frowning.

“No,” Uzoji grinned. “Not a scratch.”

Niccolette checked anyway, easing long fingers between the layers of cloth and stroking the skin of her husband’s bare side beneath. She pulled her hand back only when she could feel for herself he was still unmarked.

Uzoji shifted and laughed, cupped her cheek. “Did you bring another gown?” He asked, stepping back to examine the layers of rich silver silk, grimacing at the hem. “Flood the Circle, is that fire? When did -“

“I am fine,” Niccolette promised, cutting through the rest to the most important question. She lifted the edge of the dress, revealing singed stockings beneath. They were half falling apart, but the skin beneath was unburnt, smooth and white, the still-clean hem of her silk shift just visible. She pursed her lips. “Still, I can hardly go to the dinner like this, and the rest of what is suitable is back in the Rose.”

Uzoji exhaled. “Well enough, beloved. I shall deal with this,” he gestured at the alleyway behind them, “and send our apologies for the afternoon cocktails. See what you can do - I should not like to attend without you.”

Niccolette grinned, and kissed him; for a moment they clung together, hard and fierce, and Niccolette felt her pulse flutter a little more. “I shall try,” She promised.

The Bastian made her way back out to the street, holding the fabric of her winter cloak over the bloody stain, and walking quickly enough that the singed, muddy hem whisked over the ground. The streets of the Stacks were twisted and winding, blessedly empty of anyone Niccolette knew at this odd hour of the early afternoon.

Niccolette pushed open the door of the first tailor shop that she saw, and swept inside. Her eyes flickered non-committally over the ginger-haired wick; she knew him from his glamour. Her field was vibrant and lively in the air, still heavy with lingering spells, sprawling easily seven feet from her in the small confines of the shop.

The Bastian had looked worse, though she could hardly have been said to be looking her best. One nostril was lightly crusted with blood, and there was a faint smear of it across her cheek. Her lips were painted pinker than nature intended, still surprisingly even, though the lightly lined kohl around her eyes was slightly smeared. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, dark and wild, and she ran her hand through it and pushed it back and up off her forehead as she looked around the shop.

With the cloak covering the stain, the dress was lovely (if one ignored the singed hem). It had flawlessly tailored to the Bastian, with layers of silver silk wrapped diagonally down across the bodice of the dress. A high length of fabric emerging to cover the throat, secured with a delicate, glittering silver button. The silhouette curved in sharply at the waist, and fell straight down beneath.

“Good afternoon,” Niccolette said, and set her blood-stained silver reticule face up on the shop’s counter. She had a heavy accent, distinctly Bastian, which curled beneath her words. She let go of the side of her cloak, revealing the blood staining the shimmering silver fabric, and raised her eyebrows at the tailor. “I should like to attend a dinner tonight. Is there anything you can do?”

The Bastian glanced down at herself, and made a little face. “The blood is not mine,” she added, almost casually, as if that were the only question which might need answering.

[Juniper Feldspar]

Feldspar Tailoring
☙ 25th of Vortas, 2718; Early afternoon ❧

The shirt in Juniper's hands was a pale silvery blue, silk that billowed over his lap as he sat perched on the high stool behind his counter. He was stitching freshwater seed pearls into the collar and cuffs, tiny irregular things that no golly would have looked twice at, but lent an edge of wild beauty to the garment. Miranda was upstairs- she had taken to his guest almost immediately, probably due to the way the Gioran spoiled her worse than her owner did. The last treat they'd found for her was a bag of dried peaches, and the relish with which she snapped the sugary fruit out of the air was delightful, as was the way the miraan insisted on licking Xavier's long fingers afterwards for any stray sweetness.

The tailor smiled to himself, remembering how he had left the two of them when he came down to work that morning, two pale and lovely creatures curled up in the cosy, colourful nook of his bed.

The door slammed open, silver bell jingling frantically, and the tailor looked up, ready greeting rising to his lips.

"Good afternoon, how can I...oh tocks!"

Greeted by the sight of what seemed to be very fresh blood, the tsat recoiled with such force that he nearly fell off his stool, just managing to land on his feet as it clattered to the floorboards.

"Ma'am, are you alright? I can send for a doctor, the seventen?"

She was unnervingly nonchalant, tossing out the information that it wasn't her blood as some kind of afterthought…

...she wants this saved? Before tonight? Of all the moony…

He stood there for a moment, transfixed in astonishment, before the information filtered through that…

...well, she certainly seems well enough…

And if it really was someone else's blood, it seemed unlikely that said person was walking around any more…

...which meant that the striking galdor before him was a dangerous woman, and it might be wise to see what he could do about her request.

...I can always report her afterwards, I suppose…

He blinked, taking a deep breath.

"Forgive me, ma'am. May I take a closer look?"

He folded the shirt in his hands, stowing it nearly under the counter, and, once given permission, stepped out to inspect the dress.

"I have dealt with similar stains before," he admitted, "but none quite so extensive."

The stain...he could keep calm if he just thought of it like that, rather than...blood… was indeed extensive, the spray running across several panels of the exquisite silver fabric. He chewed his lip thoughtfully.

"The hem I can deal with, the burns are easily hidden with a pleated flounce. The stain… I might be able to. But it would mean a casting, and I don't know how well the mona would react."

He glanced up at her, a craftsman again, secure in the knowledge of his art.

"Unfortunately, at this point you have two options. Risk it, or have a permanently stained gown. There's no time to attempt to remove it with mundane means if you wish to wear it tonight."

It really was a stunning gown. Or had been…

His glamour rippled with anxiety, shying away from contact with the galdor’s, heavy as it was with the lingering residue of serious spellwork.

...don't you ever stop being dandy, showing me you're handsome...

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Afternoon, 25 Vortas, 2718
Feldspar Tailoring, The Stacks

It took the tailor a few moments of blank staring to catch up. Niccolette could be patient, she supposed; she had never thought much of the intelligence of wicks. Naturally there were some exceptions, but she was not so far terribly confident. She waited, hands folded in front of her, and after a moment arched a delicate eyebrow in expectation.

The wick seemed to come back to himself, and Niccolette nodded her permission to approach. His glamour swept deeper into her field; dampened, Niccolette thought. She made no effort to penetrate it, to caprise him, but held her field politely apart, aware of its strength, its bright vibrancy, the sharp living energy still vibrating in the air all around her. The mona remembered; they remembered conquest, the sharp rush of the fight.

Niccolette let the tailor take his time again; she was aware that it was no easy thing that she asked. At his suggested solution, she arched both eyebrows, abruptly surprised. Of course she was aware that many wicks used the mona for all sorts of things; this was not news to her, nor was this the first time she had experienced such things in person. Niccolette was not quite sure whether she ought to be offended that he would propose such a remedy to her face – to a galdor’s face – but the wick seemed very confident in himself and his skills, and she let him lay out thoughts without comment, with only a slight tightening of her lips.

He was, Niccolette thought, casually, quite right. She did not have many options, and if he said it could not be done by secular means – Niccolette shrugged, dark hair shifting over her shoulders. “Risk it,” she said, and grinned.

“I shall pay you either way,” Niccolette added after a moment. He had his skills, and Niccolette had come to him for them; she respected that he had been direct about the risk, and for all his method was not one she would have chosen, she would not have quibbled with him about which stitch to use, and so she would not quibble with him about this either.

Naturally casting was rather different for wicks – different and clumsy, of course. But Niccolette did not think fear would produce the results she desired, nor anxiety about whether she meant to take the dress from him without paying. She was not entirely unaware of how she might appear, and for the purposes of their transaction, it was not wise to encourage it further. She hardly wished to harm his efforts on her own behalf.

Niccolette hesitated, thinking all of it over, and then shrugged again, a slighter movement of her shoulders this time. She bowed, delicately and politely – not as deep as she might have to a politician or a professor, but respectfully all the same. “I am Niccolette Ibutatu,” the Bastian said. “You are Mr. Feldspar, I presume?”

Introductions made, the Bastian glanced down at the dress, and then back at the tailor. “You have somewhere I may remove it?” She asked. “I should prefer not to be in the room when you cast.” She did not flex her field; there was the temptation there, of course, but she did not particularly want to intimidate him, and it was so very easy to do so. She was not in the least shy, but she supposed it was not entirely wise to strip down to her underthings in the front room of the wick’s shop.

Niccolette thought, regretfully, of the row of tiny delicate buttons that ran down the spine of the dress - of the maid who had helped her into it - of her husband, still busy and thus not here. She made a little face. "I shall need your help with the buttons as well," she told the wick, as casually as if it was the sort of request one might make every day.