The seamstress makes quite a priceless face when she spots Ivory entering her store. Surrounded by elegant gowns that are surely worth millions if not more, there she stands, in the middle of them with a coupon in hand, a curtain around her waist, dirt in her hair and a crow on her shoulder.

“Good afternoon.” Ivory nods at the seamstress. “I— I'm in search of clothes for tonight's ball.”

Her statement causes the seamstress to pause. “Uh...” She scratches at her cheek. It is peppered in freckles that frame the forest in her eyes. “I don't mean to be rude, but are you sure you have the right store, miss?”

Ivory shows her the coupon. The seamstress leans in. Her gaze is covered by her blunt cut hair; it is a lovely ginger color that reminds Ivory of summer festivals, flowers in fields she enjoyed imagining as a child before falling asleep in her cruddy old room.

After a moment, the seamstress's eyes widen. “Well, I'll be, it is my place you're looking for!”

The wooden clock on the wall rings four times. Ivory hooks a palm around her neck and laughs, awkwardly so. “Y-yes, I— Um. Got into an accident on my way over here. Please forgive my attire.”

The seamstress holds her palm up in the air between them. “Could you give me a moment?” she says, and Ivory nods, for lack of better words to say. She fears she may very well be booted out of the seamstress’s shop very soon. However, when the young woman returns—after what certainly sounded like a good bit of rummaging through her belongings out back—she hands Ivory a towel. “I have a shower upstairs.” She points to the steps leading to the second floor of her shop. “Not sure what your accident was, miss, but if you plan to be trying on my dresses, it's best you not smell like the ocean took a dump on you.”

Heat rises in Ivory's face. She stutters a tiny, “Thank you,” and observes Robin, who has hopped onto the perch the seamstress apparently got for him, too, in the process of fetching that towel.

“Nice little fella,” the seamstress mutters as she puts him down, next to her desk. Ivory wonders if the young woman is from around here. Her speech is not quite as uptight in comparison how the Aglian people usually express themselves. Not to mention that she definitely does not seem squeamish in the least bit when it comes to handling an animal. As small as Robin may be, he is still a creature from the wilds.

Ivory walks up the creaking steps. She finds bits of fabrics scattered across the floor. Each of them are more obnoxious and brighter than its predecessors.

A lovely, circular window crossed out by thick pieces of blunt cut wood colored in discreet creams lights up the room. Sunlight dips its fingers through the roof that remains of a darker shade, yet one that still seems to match the rest of the architecture nevertheless.

When she finally makes it to the end of the attic, she notices a single bed and wonders if the seamstress also uses her workshop as a lieu of residence, or if these things are merely expected, so that whichever noble who arrives fatigued from a long journey may indulge in a few hours of rest.

The bathroom is to her right. It is, in a sense, similar to a cramped little box, though it misses nothing one needs to wash up. As Ivory navigates past the toilet and sink, she frowns. Perhaps this is truly, equally it is a home for the seamstress after all; she cannot imagine a noble—or royalty for that matter—accepting to use such a tiny bathroom. And besides, even if they wished to, Ivory doubts the crinoline beneath their puffy skirts would fit past the narrow door.

She showers. The water doesn't stink. It does not make her cough, nor does it cause her skin to itch. The mere concept of comfort that comes from this act is foreign to her, and even more so when she is bathed in warmth. There were no such possibilities back at the brothel. It was always cold. Always terribly recycled. They would cover it up with perfumes and fragrances from local flowers.

Ivory steps out.

The scent of smoke from a nearby fireplace makes her pause. Is that how they heated it, then? she wonders, while staring down to her old, and tattered clothes which lay at her feet like a memory, an artefact of the past.

She does not put them on again. Instead, she walks out with a towel draped around her ribs, her chest, then strides down the stairs.

Upon spotting her, the seamstress clasps her hands together. “Perfect!” she chimes. “Now we just need to do your make-up, dry your hair, and find a dress, and then you'll be all set!” Feeding seems to Robin seems to have put her in a good mood. Ivory doesn't ask why. She only nods, then takes a seat on a stool the young woman motions to. “So...” She hums, and observes Ivory from every corner, with a fist glued to her chin. “Any preference in color, shape, material?”

“Um...” Ivory grabs at the hems of her towel and purses her lips together. “N-not really. I don't do this often. I would rather...trust your expertise, if that's okay with you.”

The seamstress waves her off. She marches over to the door that leads to the back of the shop. Her palms come to rest against her hips. “Sure, whatever.” She pauses in her tracks. “By the way, there's no need to lie, I can tell that you've never done this before. Period.”

A moment of silence hangs in the air between them like a dead man swaying from a looped piece of rope. Beneath Ivory's feet, the floorboards creak as she tenses. “You don't care?” She doesn't know where she finds the courage to talk, though thankfully, the words don't come out too skewed.

“I care more for the fact that someone is hiding the truth from me in comparison to their origins, yes.”

“Ah.” Ivory looks to her feet. Strands of gold cover the olive shade of her gaze. “I'm sorry,” she whispers.

The seamstress shrugs. “No need to apologies. I get why you were hesitant about being honest.”

Ivory glances up at the seamstress, who faces her again. She gapes. “Huh?”

“You're new, aren't you? You work alongside Caitlin.”

“No, I—” Ivory sighs. Her shoulders drop as she averts her gaze. “A-actually... I was fired yesterday. This dress—this whole idea—it was Caitlin's parting gift.”

“Well,” the young woman laughs. “What a parting gift! It does seem like her,” she adds. “That woman never does things half-heartedly.”

“You seem close.” Ivory follows the seamstress into what is basically a giant closet at the back of the shop, with rows and rows of dresses that hang off steel bars—enough’s worth to surely buy three houses and two extra carriages on the side.

The seamstress runs her hands along intricate fabrics. Her eyes narrow. “We were,” the she says. “But she stopped coming a year ago. I never learned why, but everyone knows better than to ask questions in cases like these.”

Ivory rests a fist against her heart. Her lips purse into a thin line. “I'm sure she still wants to see—”

“I know.” The seamstress smiles, yet, it is bittersweet. “I know, I don't blame her. I only hope she is well.” She holds out her hand for Ivory to shake. “I'm Anna by the way.”

Ivory returns her grin in a way that isn't sincere, though polite, and enough to get them both through the end of today. “Ivory,” she replies as they part ways, then scavenge dark horizons in Anna’s closet. The room is lit by the faint light of a candle trapped within an old lantern that sways, faintly, in amidst the ceiling.

The sight of brown leather boots and pants to match them makes Ivory stop their search. “You make more than dresses?” she asks Anna, with her brow raised, her head tilted in a curious way.

“How rude!” Anna huffs. “Of course I do! It's just—” She sighs. She gestures towards the hundreds of clothes, the dresses that surround them. “This is usually what my patrons wish to see.”

“I like them.” Ivory takes the liberty of kneeling to get a better look at the shoes. “I think they look lovely.”

Anna crosses her arms. She glances at Ivory, who is still observing the half-made outfit. “Truly?”

Ivory giggles. She meets Anna’s eyes again. “I promised I would cease with the lies, didn't I?”