Feldspar Tailoring, The Stacks
“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.