costume shop daydreams...
Shorter stories come sometimes when I'm trying to occupy myself when I'm bored. Especially when I'm working by myself. So, this is one of those. Um, it's sort of long.
“Can I help you?”
“I need a dress.”
She nods. “For you?”
“No!” He is startled, recovers. “For a woman.”
Her lips tighten, she continues to minutely mend a tear. “And...”
Confused, he tries again. “Something for the day. Not formal, just a day dress.”
She bites off a thread, looks at him, sizing him up. “Same class as you? I can match that/”
“Yes.” He pauses, blinks. “Why did you do that?”
“What?”
“You went cold a moment ago. Why?”
Pulling thread from the spool, measuring it against her arm, she cuts it, threads the needle, then meets his eye. “If you can’t tell, then you shouldn’t be in this department.”
Another pause. A long one. He watches her back, the precision and tension in the way she holds her shoulders as she sews. “Do you really have men come in for dresses for themselves?”
She stops sewing for a moment, glances over her shoulder at him, briefly confused. “Yes.” She twists her torso a little on her stool, to watch him as she sews.
He considers her answer. “Do they say that it is comfortable?”
“What?” It was not the question she was expecting.
“The men. Do they find dresses comfortable?”
She is silent, studying his face; hers is expersionless. Then, an answer. “It depends on the dress. I mean, a farm-wife’s dress, or any working woman’s dress, is made for, well, work. So you can move in it easily, as a man. An evening gown, though, that’s made for being seen. They’re tight in the waist and hips, and you can barely walk in some of them. Not the ones we make, but some of them.” She sews a few more stitches, still watching him.
“You build special dresses.” It isn’t a question.
“Yes,” she agrees. “Who the hell are you anyway?”
“Edward Winters. Communications.” It’s enough. His name is known.
“Oh. Sorry, sir.” Her focus returns to her stitching.
“You did it again.”
“And.”
“Do you ever do housecalls?” She doesn’t repsond, just breathes in slowly, quietly, but he hears anyway. “Let me explain. We have messengers who carry letters and verbal communiques -”
“I know, I’ve done it once or twice,” she cuts in, colorlessly.
He is looking at her now. “During the seige?” It is only partially a question, but she nods anyway. He continues. “Well, one of our people was attacked a few nights ago. She’s mostly fine - they thought she was a boy, so they only cut her and gave her a black eye. But she can’t go back out.”
“She’s a target. And still healing.” It was obvious to her; she wanted him to know that.
“And unable to defend herself, even if she weren’t still recovering.” She looks up, questioning. He explains. “She’s never been trained to fight.”
“Shouldn’t you - your people - have taken care of that?” she asks, clearly less than impressed.
“We will from now on. To continue: She’s limited in activity for the next few weeks, at least, and since she can’t recieve any phsycial training yet, we’re teaching her the rest of the business.”
“You need something for her to be presentable in.”
“A few somethings. Until a dressmaker can supply a more complete wardrobe.” She looks disdainful. “I wouldn’t want to burden the shop.”
“Understood. Ours are just better.” She grins, and he does as well. “I will need a few details.”
“Of course. I thank you, Miss -”
“Krista,” she supplies, and then launches into a whirlwind of questions, half of which he cannot answer with any certainty. He was not aware of the complexity of tailoring, nor how many different measurements were required. Soon she has put down her mending, led him out the shop door, locking it behind them, and down the hall to a long, gray room filled with dresses. He is inundated with possible dresses, and asked to find one or two which might most easily fit his new student. The seamstress declares that she cannot be certain they will fit, and the only thing for it is to come herself and make adjustments.
“Really,” he says, “I did not mean to be such trouble. You must not feel obliged-”
“Nonsense. I finish what I’ve started. Besides, it’ll get me out of this place for a bit.” She grins, slightly mischeviously. The shops where necessary costumes and props are built are mostly underground, and oppressive after too long a time spent in them.
He smiles back, understanding. “I am glad to provide you with an excuse.” He hesitates, and she tilts her head.
“What?”
“Although I have an idea as to your motives, I should like to ask you why you went cold twice when I first came in.” He watches her reaction, and is not surprised to see a mix of unhappines and anger cross her face. “I ask you as, well, as a friend might, although I could askyou as a superior.”
The noise she makes is not quite a sigh and not quite a snort. “We have men - it’s always men, and mostly from the desk jobs - come in and expect us to provide them with gowns and such so they can take their latest tart to the opera, or something. They act like it’s our job to dress their mistresses, lovers, or whores. Drives me crazy. Well, none of us like it, but I’m the one who’s more willing to face them down. They don’t see, or care, that we’re an important part of the whole operation. Where do they think all the disguises come from, anyway? Damn fools, the whole lot of them. Bastards.” She trails of with the last two scentences, caught up in a bitter anger. He is uncertain what to say at first.
“Look,” he says, and she starts a little, “if any of them are ever any of mine, tell them no flat out and then send me a note about it. I can’t promise I’ll fire them, but they won’t come back, or give you any trouble.”
A sideways glance from her checks to make sure he’s not joking. He isn’t. “Thanks.”
“Can I help you?”
“I need a dress.”
She nods. “For you?”
“No!” He is startled, recovers. “For a woman.”
Her lips tighten, she continues to minutely mend a tear. “And...”
Confused, he tries again. “Something for the day. Not formal, just a day dress.”
She bites off a thread, looks at him, sizing him up. “Same class as you? I can match that/”
“Yes.” He pauses, blinks. “Why did you do that?”
“What?”
“You went cold a moment ago. Why?”
Pulling thread from the spool, measuring it against her arm, she cuts it, threads the needle, then meets his eye. “If you can’t tell, then you shouldn’t be in this department.”
Another pause. A long one. He watches her back, the precision and tension in the way she holds her shoulders as she sews. “Do you really have men come in for dresses for themselves?”
She stops sewing for a moment, glances over her shoulder at him, briefly confused. “Yes.” She twists her torso a little on her stool, to watch him as she sews.
He considers her answer. “Do they say that it is comfortable?”
“What?” It was not the question she was expecting.
“The men. Do they find dresses comfortable?”
She is silent, studying his face; hers is expersionless. Then, an answer. “It depends on the dress. I mean, a farm-wife’s dress, or any working woman’s dress, is made for, well, work. So you can move in it easily, as a man. An evening gown, though, that’s made for being seen. They’re tight in the waist and hips, and you can barely walk in some of them. Not the ones we make, but some of them.” She sews a few more stitches, still watching him.
“You build special dresses.” It isn’t a question.
“Yes,” she agrees. “Who the hell are you anyway?”
“Edward Winters. Communications.” It’s enough. His name is known.
“Oh. Sorry, sir.” Her focus returns to her stitching.
“You did it again.”
“And.”
“Do you ever do housecalls?” She doesn’t repsond, just breathes in slowly, quietly, but he hears anyway. “Let me explain. We have messengers who carry letters and verbal communiques -”
“I know, I’ve done it once or twice,” she cuts in, colorlessly.
He is looking at her now. “During the seige?” It is only partially a question, but she nods anyway. He continues. “Well, one of our people was attacked a few nights ago. She’s mostly fine - they thought she was a boy, so they only cut her and gave her a black eye. But she can’t go back out.”
“She’s a target. And still healing.” It was obvious to her; she wanted him to know that.
“And unable to defend herself, even if she weren’t still recovering.” She looks up, questioning. He explains. “She’s never been trained to fight.”
“Shouldn’t you - your people - have taken care of that?” she asks, clearly less than impressed.
“We will from now on. To continue: She’s limited in activity for the next few weeks, at least, and since she can’t recieve any phsycial training yet, we’re teaching her the rest of the business.”
“You need something for her to be presentable in.”
“A few somethings. Until a dressmaker can supply a more complete wardrobe.” She looks disdainful. “I wouldn’t want to burden the shop.”
“Understood. Ours are just better.” She grins, and he does as well. “I will need a few details.”
“Of course. I thank you, Miss -”
“Krista,” she supplies, and then launches into a whirlwind of questions, half of which he cannot answer with any certainty. He was not aware of the complexity of tailoring, nor how many different measurements were required. Soon she has put down her mending, led him out the shop door, locking it behind them, and down the hall to a long, gray room filled with dresses. He is inundated with possible dresses, and asked to find one or two which might most easily fit his new student. The seamstress declares that she cannot be certain they will fit, and the only thing for it is to come herself and make adjustments.
“Really,” he says, “I did not mean to be such trouble. You must not feel obliged-”
“Nonsense. I finish what I’ve started. Besides, it’ll get me out of this place for a bit.” She grins, slightly mischeviously. The shops where necessary costumes and props are built are mostly underground, and oppressive after too long a time spent in them.
He smiles back, understanding. “I am glad to provide you with an excuse.” He hesitates, and she tilts her head.
“What?”
“Although I have an idea as to your motives, I should like to ask you why you went cold twice when I first came in.” He watches her reaction, and is not surprised to see a mix of unhappines and anger cross her face. “I ask you as, well, as a friend might, although I could askyou as a superior.”
The noise she makes is not quite a sigh and not quite a snort. “We have men - it’s always men, and mostly from the desk jobs - come in and expect us to provide them with gowns and such so they can take their latest tart to the opera, or something. They act like it’s our job to dress their mistresses, lovers, or whores. Drives me crazy. Well, none of us like it, but I’m the one who’s more willing to face them down. They don’t see, or care, that we’re an important part of the whole operation. Where do they think all the disguises come from, anyway? Damn fools, the whole lot of them. Bastards.” She trails of with the last two scentences, caught up in a bitter anger. He is uncertain what to say at first.
“Look,” he says, and she starts a little, “if any of them are ever any of mine, tell them no flat out and then send me a note about it. I can’t promise I’ll fire them, but they won’t come back, or give you any trouble.”
A sideways glance from her checks to make sure he’s not joking. He isn’t. “Thanks.”