The seamstress keeps staring at the door after I enter. I glance at it. Nothing special there. The rest of the shop is customary. An area for chaperons, cushioned chairs and tables laden with things to eat. To my right is a harder area for women to wait. Both are empty. Material and clothes are in the back.
The seamstress huffs, getting my attention. She's an angular woman with no engagement or wedding mark. Probably a lower class trying to help her family make ends meet until she can fulfill her purpose by marrying and producing babies. A warlock sits behind the counter next to her, reading a book. I can't tell if he's the owner of the shop, or just supervising. Either way, I wish he wasn't here.
“When's your Father coming?” the seamstress asks.
“It's just me.” Her eyes grow over raised eyebrows. Using Father's example, I try to sound authoritative. “I need a dress for an engagement ceremony.”
“Ahem. Yes.” She looks at the door again then grabs a few sheets of loose paper. She thumbs through the pages a moment before stopping. “Here they are. Basic patterns we can alter to suit you. Your figure isn't perfect for an engagement dress, but not bad.”
Cynthia wouldn't have gotten that criticism. “It's what I have.”
She continues as if I didn't say anything. “We can come up with something suitable for your Father to approve when he has time.”
I let the barb and the comment about Father go. What could I say anyway? I inch forward so I can see the pages she's referring to. Instantly I avert my eyes. Mother was serious when she said her dress was old fashioned and modest. These gowns make mother's choice positively chaste.
“I was thinking something a little well—well more.”
The shopkeeper nods. “It's not what you're used to, but they're perfectly respectable for an engagement ceremony.”
“I understand, but would still like something different for my own dress.”
The shopkeeper's face tightens with a false smile. “Why don't you come back later with your Father and mother? They are so helpful.”
I slap on an emotionless mask and take a breath. “My parents nor any other person will attend me. I want a dress that will cover me properly.” The warlock finally looks at me, but I keep my focus on the seamstress. “And in a color too, I should think.”
“Color?” she says. “Engagement dresses never have color. Black and black only. For humility, worthiness, and submission to your intended. Black gives in to all. A bride must do the same.”
“Are you saying you won't make what I'm asking for?”
“Course I won't. Are you addled?”
“Excuse me, I find I won't be needing your services today.” I leave as she continues to yell at me to bring my Father. I take a deep breath. Getting clothing was never like that before, but I always had the one thing she wanted. Father. Maybe coming without a chaperon wasn't a good idea. Especially when I'm asking for something so different. Never know until I try. I head for the next shop.
Three stores later I have similar degrees of failure, but a variance on rudeness. One store flatly refused to speak with me without a chaperon, and the last store said I might as well go to a tarnished store, except tarnished never marry so wouldn't carry such a thing. In spite of the no marriage thing, I thought it sounded like a good idea. They make dresses, it can't be much different to make an engagement one. Can it?
I give the driver instructions to find a tarnished seamstress. He lifts a brow, but doesn't say a word as I climb in the carriage. At least some men seem to care about their job and not harassing women. Luckily it isn't a far enough drive to make my stomach feel ill. Yet, as I stand in front of the shop, I feel ill anyway. A tarnished clothing shop. What was I thinking? I might as well give in and let myself become a tarnished. Mother's dress will be fine. She was right. I sigh and head toward the carriage.
A bell rings and a woman's voice calls out, “Excuse me.”
I pivot toward the voice. A woman with the black swirls of a tarnished on her narrow face occupies the entrance to the shop. Her dress is a two piece in differing colors of dark gold and black, wild as I expect a tarnished not serving in a prominent house to be. I step back.
“Excuse me,” she says again, “I noticed you've been standing there staring at my shop for a while. I wondered if there is something I might help you with.”
Not only is she speaking to me, but she has a nice, soothing voice.
“I don't know. I need a dress, but I suppose I'm in the wrong place.”
“A dress? I can help. Come in.” When I hesitate, she opens the door wider. “Please, come in.”