he little tailor bit his lip in concentration, considering his freckled reflection in the mirror fastened to the tent pole before him. He did so love Surwood, it let him be a little more flamboyant than was appropriate for a serious business owner, and Juniper took full advantage. This year he'd made a new waistcoat, the base fabric a simple unbleached linen, but embroidered with a riot of wildflowers in all shades of purple and gold, with a few hidden surprises in the form of a couple of bees, a red admiral butterfly, a fieldmouse and several ladybirds. Unusually for a male garment, he had stiffened the seams with whalebone and laced it at the back with lavender velvet ribbon, resulting in clean lines and a perfect unruffled canvas to show off the embroidery. Of course, it did also show off his trim waist, but that was more of a side-benefit than intention.
In contrast, his shirt was butter-soft lavender silk, with voluminous bloused sleeves that hung like a dream and billowed in the slightest breeze. The wide collar hung unbuttoned- no cravat today. Breeches were of the same crisp undyed linen as his waistcoat, with just a narrow accent of that lavender ribbon stitched down the side seams for a pop of colour.
He sighed happily, tweaking neat cuffs, and smiled down at nails lacquered a delicate pearlescent violet- he'd given in finally and bought a bottle, and Surwood was a perfect excuse to try it out. The wick gave a quiet whistle as he turned, holding out one wrist as he shouldered a leather satchel with the other hand, and Miranda gracefully uncurled from the table she'd been napping on to zip over and curl round his forearm, nuzzling happily into his palm with a musical chirrup.
He looked around the little tent with a satisfied smile, making sure that everything was neat and tidy before he left- belongings and bed stowed safely behind the curtain at the back, the long trestle table along one wall covered in neatly folded garments, two wicker mannequins hung against the opposite wall, one bearing a pretty green day dress, the other wearing a smart dusky blue suit. He ducked out of the flap, buttoning it behind him, and nodded to the cheerful middle-aged witch who ran the adjoining stall. She sold candied nuts and marzipan fancies and had more than once insisted he sample some in the week he'd been here.
“Hesta, Moira! I'm off exploring- if anyone wants me, tell 'm I'll be open again on the morrow?”
She smiled, reaching a hand out to pet Miranda, who trilled happily, fluffing her feather crest.
“Oes, pet, ne problem.” The witch turned, snagging a paper bag that rattled dully and pressed it into his free hand. “Take 'em to keep ye goin’, oes? Have a benny time, ye chen?”
He chuckled, knowing by now that it was fruitless to attempt to refuse, and slid the little paper bag into his satchel with a warm “Thankye! Oes, I'll do m’ best!”
Such a beautiful day. It wasn't so much the weather- though it was lovely and bright, despite the snow they'd had overnight- but more that Juniper was in a place where he felt truly at home, where he was guaranteed a welcome, and there were no clocking gollies around every corner to keep his nerves running high.
Music, chatter and delicious scents filled the air, the place a riot of colour and movement.
Everything- everything- was beautiful, and he had been riding high on the sheer atmosphere ever since he'd arrived four days ago.
He meandered happily for the better part of two hours, taking in sights, sounds and smells, chatting happily to anyone who greeted him.
There was music everywhere, but around mid morning, he'd stopped to grab a late breakfast- the seller's hand pies had reminded him of Cecelia- when Miranda's crest fluffed suddenly, and her head darted up, cocking from one side to the other as though she was trying to work out where a sound was coming from.
“What is it, darling?”
She slithered in a coil around the strap of his satchel where she'd been resting, but suddenly she was in the air, beating up to wheel over his head before letting out a happy trill and dart off in a direction he'd not explored.
His desperate whistle did nothing, so, swearing, pie in hand, he ran after the little silver streak disappearing between a cluster of tents a few hundred yards away.
The sound of a stringed instrument filtered into hearing, tickling something at the back of his memory, but he was more concerned about his pet.
“MIRANDA!”