Feldspar Tailoring
☙ 22nd of Loshis, 2720; Morning/Noon❧
☙ 22nd of Loshis, 2720; Morning/Noon❧
The rain was already tapping against the window when Juniper awoke. He blinked slowly into consciousness, tempted for a moment to let the patter lull him back to sleep, as he was most mornings in this season. Rain was cosy, enclosing, the sound of it blocked out everything else, and there came with it a comforting kind of pressure, like a soft blanket tucked around him.
He must have hesitated too long, because Miranda stretched and yawned on the pillow by his head, lithe silver body coiling and flicking, and nudged his freckled cheek with her tiny wedge-shaped head, feathered crest rippling. She gave a chirrup, and launched herself up into the air- the chirrup which meant that it was time for breakfast, and if Juniper didn’t get moving soon, she would start making a nuisance of herself.
“Mmm. Morning, Mim…”
The little wick blinked hard, stretched himself, tossing back the patchwork quilt, and hopped out of his cosy box bed. Twenty minutes later, the bed was made, his nightshirt folded neatly under the pillow, and the red-haired wick was washed and dressed, and frying sausages in a copper pan on the cast-iron stove while his kofi bubbled in a pot further back. Miranda had draped herself around his neck under his copper curls, and her flickering tongue tasted the flavourful air as the aroma of cooking pork and fragrant beans filled the little flat.
Soon, the kofi had brewed and the sausages were bursting out of their skins, and the tailor sat down at the little round table, a braided rush mat saving the embroidered tablecloth from heat and spills. He traced one of the bright., chainstitched flowers with a fingertip and a nostalgic smile, before cutting a couple of chunks off one sausage and slipping them onto a saucer, along with a little bread soaked in the pork fat. Before Miranda could dive, for it, however, he upended a clean cup over the food.
“Hot, Mim.”
She trilled indignantly, as she always did when he made her wait, and curled her serpentine body around the plate, looking up at him with soulful eyes as he tucked into his own breakfast.
“So, we have...hmmm… the sleeves to set in Mrs Dalrymple’s walking costume, three pinafores to...mmm… to monogram for little Jessica…” He lifted the cup briefly to check the temperature of the food beneath with a fingertip, and set it down again. “And...ohh, that box of trims from Vienda arrived yesterday, I should make up a sample box for Doctor Forsythe. Mmm. Yes.”
Juniper had fallen into this habit maybe eight months after setting up shop in Brunnhold. He was a social creature, and while he had no need to converse while working, it did get quiet. So he spoke to Miranda. He told her about the day he had planned, what he was working on, the customers he was fond of...and the ones who weren’t so kind. Sometimes he sang her songs, old ditties his gitgka had sung while she taught him to sew.
---
The morning passed uneventfully, and in the neat workroom below his home, Juniper finished setting in the sleeves of Mrs Dalrymple’s jacket, worked eighteen neat buttonholes in emerald silk twist down the centre front, and five on each cuff, and stitched on the buttons, deep green pearl with a brass shank, in strong waxed linen thread.
One commission safely pressed and boxed up in tissue paper, Juniper fetched himself a kofi and leaned contentedly against the open door of his shop, just out of the rain, admiring the changes he had been able to afford to make to the shop front in the last three months.
Dripping, verdant leaves of poorman’s violets now snaked up the brickwork at the front of the building, either side of the newly glazed shop window. Gone were the tiny, warped panes of glass that made anything inside look like you were viewing it underwater, if you could indeed make out a shape at all. In their place were larger, clear planes, set in beautifully varnished frames of dark wood, and below it, a deep windowbox spilling over with lavender, pansies and nasturtiums in all shades of purple, blue, white and palest pink, its twin framing the window above.
Miranda, from her sleepy perch around his neck, gave a soft trill as a particularly fat raindrop splashed into the gutter that raced bubbles past them over the cobblestones.
He must have hesitated too long, because Miranda stretched and yawned on the pillow by his head, lithe silver body coiling and flicking, and nudged his freckled cheek with her tiny wedge-shaped head, feathered crest rippling. She gave a chirrup, and launched herself up into the air- the chirrup which meant that it was time for breakfast, and if Juniper didn’t get moving soon, she would start making a nuisance of herself.
“Mmm. Morning, Mim…”
The little wick blinked hard, stretched himself, tossing back the patchwork quilt, and hopped out of his cosy box bed. Twenty minutes later, the bed was made, his nightshirt folded neatly under the pillow, and the red-haired wick was washed and dressed, and frying sausages in a copper pan on the cast-iron stove while his kofi bubbled in a pot further back. Miranda had draped herself around his neck under his copper curls, and her flickering tongue tasted the flavourful air as the aroma of cooking pork and fragrant beans filled the little flat.
Soon, the kofi had brewed and the sausages were bursting out of their skins, and the tailor sat down at the little round table, a braided rush mat saving the embroidered tablecloth from heat and spills. He traced one of the bright., chainstitched flowers with a fingertip and a nostalgic smile, before cutting a couple of chunks off one sausage and slipping them onto a saucer, along with a little bread soaked in the pork fat. Before Miranda could dive, for it, however, he upended a clean cup over the food.
“Hot, Mim.”
She trilled indignantly, as she always did when he made her wait, and curled her serpentine body around the plate, looking up at him with soulful eyes as he tucked into his own breakfast.
“So, we have...hmmm… the sleeves to set in Mrs Dalrymple’s walking costume, three pinafores to...mmm… to monogram for little Jessica…” He lifted the cup briefly to check the temperature of the food beneath with a fingertip, and set it down again. “And...ohh, that box of trims from Vienda arrived yesterday, I should make up a sample box for Doctor Forsythe. Mmm. Yes.”
Juniper had fallen into this habit maybe eight months after setting up shop in Brunnhold. He was a social creature, and while he had no need to converse while working, it did get quiet. So he spoke to Miranda. He told her about the day he had planned, what he was working on, the customers he was fond of...and the ones who weren’t so kind. Sometimes he sang her songs, old ditties his gitgka had sung while she taught him to sew.
---
The morning passed uneventfully, and in the neat workroom below his home, Juniper finished setting in the sleeves of Mrs Dalrymple’s jacket, worked eighteen neat buttonholes in emerald silk twist down the centre front, and five on each cuff, and stitched on the buttons, deep green pearl with a brass shank, in strong waxed linen thread.
One commission safely pressed and boxed up in tissue paper, Juniper fetched himself a kofi and leaned contentedly against the open door of his shop, just out of the rain, admiring the changes he had been able to afford to make to the shop front in the last three months.
Dripping, verdant leaves of poorman’s violets now snaked up the brickwork at the front of the building, either side of the newly glazed shop window. Gone were the tiny, warped panes of glass that made anything inside look like you were viewing it underwater, if you could indeed make out a shape at all. In their place were larger, clear planes, set in beautifully varnished frames of dark wood, and below it, a deep windowbox spilling over with lavender, pansies and nasturtiums in all shades of purple, blue, white and palest pink, its twin framing the window above.
Miranda, from her sleepy perch around his neck, gave a soft trill as a particularly fat raindrop splashed into the gutter that raced bubbles past them over the cobblestones.
...don't you ever stop being dandy, showing me you're handsome...
