3 - pygmalianation

In the end, she found herself in a pale blue tweed suit with a short skirt and a silken blouse that was tailored very close to the line of her body. Once her hair had been carefully smoothed and twisted into a complicated chignon, and her feet had been fitted into coordinating pumps, she looked very striking indeed: a potent combination of competent and available. She certainly looked older than sixteen: an impeccably polished career woman.

When she had seen the complete effect of her arrangement in the full length mirrors of the salon, she had truly comprehended what she had begun to suspect even during the early stages of her transformation. She had certainly not been dressed for herself, to give her confidence in an uncertain and challenging situation. She had not even been dressed to suit her father and his distant impression of the daughter he now expected to rise to her place at his right hand.

No, it was very clear. She had been dressed to satisfy the fancy of Lord Lysander, the man she was meant to squire. She did not need an encyclopedic knowledge of his whims to understand this fact. She did not even need a vague impression of his character. Everything about her had been carefully calculated to please, from her small, but bright diamond earrings, to her precise but understated makeup, to her careful pale pink manicure, and the classic height of her stiletto heeled pumps.

She felt ill at ease. It was nothing at all like the way she had intended to dress herself.

Always be aware that the way you look — how you choose to dress, the set of your hair, even the color of your lipstick — has a profound effect on the way people see you. This does not mean that you should be so foolish as to judge people solely on their looks. You are brighter than that, my darling, her mother had said. But it would be equally foolish to imagine that the way you look doesn’t matter, or that it shouldn’t matter. If you do not take care with how you appear, you will discover that you are saying something that is not of your deliberate choosing. You must always think, and make these choices carefully, for yourself. Never let someone else dress you without the understanding that they are putting whatever words they like into your mouth.

But there was another thing she understood. Her father had ordered that this was the way she would be presented at the Pinnacle. It did not matter what she thought about it. It did not matter what wisdom her mother had left in her care. She might have stoically refused. She might have appealed to logic, or sympathy. She might have lodged a fierce protest. She might have thrown a splendid tantrum. She had tried all of these tactics in the past, during the long years of her childhood.

When it was the will of her father, there was nothing to be done about it. Either she would submit quietly, or her arm would be twisted until she submitted. She was not allowed to protest. She was not even allowed to have an opinion.

Her mother had been philosophical about it.

In the face of immovable tyranny, one finds other ways to rebel, she had said. You will find your own ways Demi, with wisdom and cunning and patience. You don’t have to resign yourself. You simply have to bide your time. We all have yokes under which we chafe.

And so she had endured. She had let them smooth her curls and powder her face, and paint her eyelids in a way that was very different from the way she painted them herself. She had tolerated all of it, even being dabbed by a perfume that was not of her choosing.

They had taken her dress from her.

They had taken her petticoat, her drawers, her socks, even her shoes. They had taken even her underwear, and put her in new pieces of a substantially different style. These new undergarments had a mature feeling, sleek and sexy and without the ribbons, lace, and trims that defined the panties and bras that she ordinarily wore.

These new clothes — the suit, the pumps, the panties and bra — they all fit comfortably. They were all well designed and beautifully tailored. This outfit would have been a dream to many: chic, sophisticated, minimalist, modern, stylish.

But they were not what Demi would have chosen for herself in any circumstance. She had a very strong personal style and thought very carefully about everything she wore. She was deliberate about things, and this deliberateness made her happy. It felt fulfilling to wear the clothes that she loved, put together in new and interesting ways that she had thought of herself.

Even today’s coordinate, one meant for comfortable travel, had been thoughtfully put together so the look was cohesive and entirely her own. A travel coordinate was a special sort of outfit, because it required one’s style to be reduced to the most essential elements for both comfort and practicality.

She was partial to the dress, and she had been wearing one of her favorite petticoats, so she was concerned when one of the shop girls cleared them away while she was getting changed.

Don’t worry, she had been told. Your old clothes will be packaged, cleaned, and delivered to your home address by the end of the day.

She would have to depend on their word. She had no real way to disagree. It wasn’t as if she could go to the Pinnacle dragging around her petticoat and dress stuffed into a second bag, and although her own bag was miraculous in what it could hold, it was not bottomless.

And it was stuffed to the gills already.

So she was required to trust them with her things.

But she put her foot down when they attempted to take her bag.

“I am sorry,” she said with a snap of her deadly pointed heel, “But I refuse. Categorically. I’ve let you do the rest, but I am keeping my bag.”

It was her last bastion of self, the repository for her most precious treasures, those she had not trusted to be tucked away into her suitcases. The bag itself had its own meaning too. It had been a birthday present. Her mother had arranged for it to be specially made. There was no other bag like it in the world — a messenger bag made to look like her favorite book. It was a treasure in itself.

It was the line she drew in the sand. She would not allow anyone to cross it. They had to understand that there was a limit to her docility. There were some insults that she could not and would not accept.

She was ready for a standoff, ready to make this the hill she died on.

Fortunately for her, her equerry had both sense and experience. Allowing her to keep her own bag was something that Clarence Darby was willing to accept. It was a small concession, after all.

Demeter Serraffield was allowed to keep her bag.