The Duke's Decision

“How was the collegium?” Fiona asked. She put down the knife and waved her hand, and a plate with a slice of hand-raised meat pie wobbled for a second before drifting across the table and landing in front of Warin.

Warin stared into the distance for a moment, lost in thought. “Thank you, dear,” he said reflexively. “The mages of the collegium are disorganized. They still don't seem to understand what happened with the succession, and now the collegium's sponsored projects are losing investors. Most of the collegium's members openly favored Richard. The duke isn't happy about that, which means that the investors coming from outside the collegium are having second thoughts. I'll be meeting with some of those outside investors soon. Local gentry, for the most part. A fellow named Edward Taylor in particular, he's the main investor on the manufactory Alric was talking about.”

“What are you going to do?” Fiona asked.

“Investigate more,” Warin said. “I'm hoping to find out what's really happening behind the scenes. Something smells a bit funny. Diviner's curiosity, you know. That said, it might not hurt to introduce you to some of the local gentry.”

“I'll go if you think it'll help,” Fiona said. “I was thinking of going and buying a gown for the ball.”

The old wizard chuckled. “I'm sure the Taylors know a tailor. With that name, they probably were in the trade before they became cloth factors and industrialists, but whatever else, you can be assured that they have ambitions of upwards social mobility, which demands attention to fashion. They have money, but Edward Taylor hasn't a title to put in front of his name.”

“I was also wondering,” Fiona said, pushing a piece of pie around her plate with her fork, and stopped. “I was wondering if you would help with enchanting the gown.”

“You don't need enchantments to draw the eye.” Warin furrowed his brow. “They usually attract the wrong sorts of attention anyway.”

“No, no, I was thinking of protections,” Fiona said. “A ballroom full of nobles isn't the safest place in the world to be magically unprotected.”

“No, it isn't,” Master Warin said, stroking his beard. “You're very right. I'll see what I can do. I haven't the materials we used in your robes, but we should be able to protect you against idle mischief or a hungry bloodsucker. York hasn't the reputation of London for that, but it doesn’t hurt to be safe.”

Fiona beamed at the praise of her good judgement.

“Of course, I'll expect you to do the actual work of laying them in yourself,” Warin said sternly. “I'll check your work, but basic protections should be well within the purview of your skills and you could use the practice.”

Fiona frowned. “But... what if I can't…”

“I'll help you through any ward that proves too tricky. But only after you've tried it by yourself at least twice,” Warin said. He turned his attention back to his plate, which was still mostly full. With their conversation concluded, there were only the quiet sounds of eating; then contented silence as the two of them read.

The sun was just setting over the rooftops when Fiona arrived at the Taylors' manor. Nervous about her debut in the unfamiliar arena of polite society, she'd spent almost an hour preparing herself. She'd washed and combed the red hair that announced her unfortunate ancestry and then, having second thoughts, flattened it in a crown braid that would fit snugly under her cap.

She’d also freshly ironed out her journeyman's robes, as their enchantments against damage did not apply to wrinkles. She'd checked her teeth for any unsightly remnants of her lunch and applied few cautious drops of unfamiliar perfume. She'd even dabbed a bit of rouge onto her cheeks. She hoped she looked presentable, as her extended preparations meant that she was late.

She was just tightening her cap over her eartips again, delaying her exit from the carriage, when a footman stepped forward and opened the door for her. She thanked him politely, and followed the servant into the house. The foyer was wide and well lit, with several magelights hanging from the ceiling. The walls were decorated with paintings of landscapes and many portraits of two or three different proud-looking men (as they were clearly closely related and varied in age, it was difficult to be sure); the floor was mostly covered with an exotic-looking carpet, surely expensive.

There were two doors leading off the foyer, both propped open with doorstops; one led to a sitting room, the other to the dining room. Guided by a gesture from the footman, Fiona stepped into the sitting room, where she found herself surrounded by ladies in elegant dresses. Some were old; some were young; all seemed perfectly at ease in a way that unnerved Fiona. One of the older ones was the first to speak to her.

“Journeyman Fiona!” the woman said, curtsying and then gesturing at one of the younger women. “We're so pleased to have you here! I'm Margaret Taylor, and this is my daughter, Beatrice.”

“Delighted to meet you,” Fiona said, trying to return the curtsy and feeling all the more awkward about her professional robes. “Your dresses are very nice,” she said. “I feel quite plain in comparison.”

The younger woman that Margaret had gestured to – Beatrice – smiled. “Oh, don't say that, dear,” she said. “You look lovely, even in those robes.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said, relieved for a moment before she noticed the qualifier attached to the statement.

As Fiona’s nervousness returned, Margaret came over and introduced her to the rest of the ladies in the room.

After the span of a few minutes that, to Fiona, felt like a few hours, Master Warin appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a man with a short dark beard. He nodded to Fiona, and she curtsied again. “Good evening, ladies,” he said. “Edward, this is my apprentice, Fiona. Fiona, this is Edward Taylor. I see you've met the women of the household already.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Fiona said, rising to give a quick bow.

“It's an honor to meet you,” Edward said. “I hope we can talk later about business opportunities,” he added, turning back towards Warin.

Master Warin sighed. “That's all very well, but seeing your lovely wife and daughter reminds me that we have a problem,” he said. “Fiona's been invited to a ball coming up soon, and I have not the slightest idea where or how to buy her a suitable gown.”

“Oh dear,” Beatrice said. “Well, I'd be happy to go out shopping with her tomorrow and see if we can find her a seamstress who will do a quick job of it. I've need of a few things myself.” She risked a quick glance at her father.

Edward frowned, but gave a curt nod.

“Excellent,” Master Warin said. “Now, I believe there was some mention of tea and cake?”

The following morning, Fiona sat on a chair in the drawing room, reading a book while Master Warin lay on the floor, holding up a pendulum in one arm and watching its slow irregular movements from beneath. She'd distractedly re-read the same page repeatedly for half an hour without noticing anything new and had almost fallen asleep when the door opened and a servant entered, a young woman with her hair tightly bound and a silk ribbon wrapped around her neck.

“Excuse me, miss,” the girl said, bowing. “Lady Beatrice wants to know if you're ready yet.”

“Ready for what?” Fiona asked, looking up.

“She wants to know if you're ready to go shopping,” the girl said. “She's already waiting for you in the carriage.”

Fiona got to her feet. “Oh! I had forgotten.” Hastily brushing her hands across her body in an effort to smooth her wrinkled robes, she glanced at her master on the floor.

Warin raised a distracted hand with a dismissive motion. “Have fun,” he said absently, squinting at the pendulum. “I’ll be here for a while.”

“Now, I’ve been wanting a new gown from Madame Percy, but she’s booked solid,” Beatrice said, gesticulating expressively. “Absolute nonsense, but my father won’t increase my allowance, so I can’t afford telling her she has to let me jump the queue. We’ll be going to Madame Jocosa instead. She’s a bit old-fashioned, but even looking like my mother would be better than that.”

Beatrice’s hand negligently plucked at Fiona’s robe, then withdrew suddenly.

“Ouch!” Beatrice sucked her finger. “That sparked at me.”

“Sorry, they’re warded,” Fiona said. “Really, they shouldn’t go off unless someone has ill intentions, but I’m only a journeyman. These things go awry sometimes.”

“You can say that again,” Beatrice said, flexing her hand and staring. “Anyway, I was saying that there are a lot of dressmakers in York. Jocosa is just, um, the most convenient, and she’s pretty thorough in her measurements, so that’ll save us time when we move on to someone with a fashion sense that’s changed since my grandmother’s time.” Beatrice glared down at Fiona’s robes. She started to reach out again, and then pulled her hand back.

“Thank you,” Fiona said, shyly. “I really don’t know much about this sort of thing.”

“But you’re… you’re a journeyman. Surely you journey?” Beatrice pasted a smile on her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’ve been to London, right?”

“No, not yet, really,” Fiona said. “I could go, in theory, but… my master, um, my father needs someone to help take care of things. He gets distracted with his work.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “What, telling fortunes for bored gentlewomen?”

Fiona shook her head energetically as the carriage rattled to a halt. “No, he doesn’t – oh, is this it?”

“Ah, looks like it,” Beatrice said. “Jocosa changed her sign again. She must be either doing well or doing poorly.”

Fiona snorted in amusement. “Well or poorly?”

Beatrice nodded, a wholly serious expression on her face as she hopped out of the carriage. “Not business as usual, either way. Doing up a new sign is a lot of time better spent sewing if she did it herself, or money if she hired to have it done. My bet is poorly. Madame Percy was in London this past season & Madame Jocosa hadn’t even a pattern for a good basic feeder neck when I asked last February.”

“Feeder neck?” Fiona asked, peering at Beatrice’s bodice as she steadied herself nervously.

“It’s a sort of moon-shaped decolletage cut,” Beatrice said, self-consciously adjusting her stays. “Not like I’m wearing right now, it actually covers a bit more, but there’s a hole, you see, and the cleavage just peeks the tiniest bit. The first versions were absolutely everywhere in London, like, three years ago. Maybe four now?”

“I’ve never seen the like,” Fiona said, thinking back on the dresses she’d seen on Beatrice’s mother and the other women of the Taylor household.

“It’s daringly fashionable. York is usually five years behind the times, and old ladies like my mother even moreso,” Beatrice said, rolling her eyes. “Right now, I’ve got on a cast-off from my older sister. Suitable for about town, nothing I would wear if I was visiting with true bluebloods.”

“I see,” Fiona said, and then turned, startled, as a small bell rang. Standing at waist height in the open doorway was a gray-haired halfling lady, wearing a ruffled confection of deep pure black.

“You missies going to come in, or just chat all day in front of the shop?” The woman – Madame Jocosa, clearly – held the door open as she vigorously waved them inside. “Bella, I’ve a lovely new gown in and mended from a trade customer. It’s a spiderweb top, rather daring, just your style and almost exactly your size.”

Beatrice sniffed derisively. “I haven’t bought a spiderweb top in two years,” she said. “I gave the last one to one of my country cousins six months ago. Madame Jo, I’m here because Fiona here needs something better to wear to a ball than this… sack.” She waved at Fiona’s journeyman robes.

Madame Jocosa’s face flickered into a disappointed frown for a moment, and then she looked over at Fiona, grabbing at her robes without as much as a hello. “Sturdy,” she said. “Well and soundly made. But yes, at a formal occasion, you’d look like part of the help. Bagging up your hair under a cap isn’t doing you any favors, either.”

Fiona fidgeted, fingers fluttering over her cap. “But I always wear my cap out and about,” she said. “It, uh… I think it suits me.”

Using her grip on Fiona’s robes, Madame Jocosa raised herself up on her tiptoes and reached up, snatching the cap with surprising speed.

For a shocked moment, Fiona could only wonder why the wards on her robe hadn’t reacted to the sudden assault on her dignity; evidently, the rude old woman meant well.

“Tsk, tsk.” The halfling shook her head, waving the cap in front of her. “You’ve perfectly lovely hair, and we’re not in the backwards western coast where they’ll look askance at the points of your ears. Irish corsairs aren’t our worry here in York. Besides, Lady Maude herself is half-blooded. She’s the elder matron of the castle.”

Fiona grabbed for the cap, but the old lady was too quick. “That’s mine!”

Madame Jocosa held the cap behind her back. “I’ll give it back to you, but you have to promise me that you won’t wear it with any dress of mine. Ugly thing.”

“We haven’t agreed to buy a dress of yours,” Beatrice said, butting in. “Come on, Fiona, let’s move along to the next one.”

“Wait,” Fiona said. “I haven’t even seen what she has to offer.”

Madame Jocosa shook the cap at Beatrice. “Bella, I won’t put up with any nonsense. Are you going to tell her this cap flatters her?”

Beatrice stepped back. “No,” she said, her voice betraying a sullen mood.

“So. Promise me, and then I’ll show you what I think will suit you,” Madame Jocosa said.

Fiona looked down at the gray-haired halfling, then over at Beatrice, then back to the gray-haired halfling. “I promise I won’t wear my cap with one of your gowns. But I’m not promising I’ll buy one at all.”

Beatrice huffed, and walked over to the corner, where she sprawled bonelessly on a loveseat, staring up at the ceiling as Madame Jocosa disappeared behind a half-sized doorway. Fiona looked around the shop curiously as she waited. There were knickknacks, mannequins, hats, gloves, child-sized (or perhaps halfling-sized) gowns on display; a skeletal arm mounted on a sewing plate, a different needle attachment on each of its four fingers; and several full-length mirrors.

Madame Jocosa emerged with a bundle of sea green silk in her arms. “I knew I had a lovely bolt, and I think it’s just the shade for you, but I’ll want to see it up against your skin and hair to know.” The halfling pulled on a rope, and a shade pulled away from a erratically flickering but bright magelight. “Hold this,” she said.

Fiona accepted the pile of fabric hesitantly. “Like this?”

“Hold it up to your face,” the old lady said, pulling out a measuring tape and setting it between her teeth as she grabbed the hem of Fiona’s robe. “Hm-hm, right color,” she mumbled around the measuring table.

“But…” Fiona jumped slightly at the sudden intrusion of the measuring tape into her personal space.

In the corner, Beatrice giggled. “You’ve never been fitted properly before, have you?” she said.

“Shush, Bella,” Madame Jocosa said, rolling her measuring tape back up and taking the bundle of silk back. “Fiona, I could have something ready for you in three days’ time. It’ll look something like…” She paused, rummaging in a drawer underneath a counter, then pulling out a piece of paper. “Something like this. Only in colors that suit you.”

Fiona eyed the piece of paper. Long draped sleeves, hanging open; a neckline wide and circular, but not deep; the bodice extending down with a dagger-like triangle, opening for hips and skirt to either side.

Beatrice wandered over, looking over Fiona’s shoulder. “See? No feeder neckline.”

Madame Jocosa rolled her eyes. “Are you feeding someone?” She bared her teeth mockingly. “It’s a silly fashion.” Clapping a hand to her forehead, the halfling continued. “Oh, please eat me!”

“It’s the in thing,” Beatrice said. “Come on, Fiona, let’s go get you something more fashionable.” She reached out to tug at Fiona’s sleeve; then, remembering the shock she’d gotten the last time she’d touched Fiona’s robes, pulled her hand away.

Fiona stared at the paper, then brushed at her robes. “It does look pretty. How much?”

“For you? Twelve pounds if you’re willing to get your hands dirty and refresh the magelights in my house and shop.” Madame Jocosa nodded. “You’re a journeyman, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Fiona said. “I mean, yes I am. But also, I guess, yes to the dress?”

“We haven’t even looked anywhere else yet! Come on, Fiona, don’t you know how to shop?” Beatrice crossed her arms, looking fierce.

“The lady knows her mind,” Madame Jocosa said. “And there’s not another dressmaker in town who will fit her before Isolde’s ball with anything suitable for less than twenty pounds as a rush job. As an elfblood, she has a rare figure, and I’ve fitted Maude thrice in the last ten years.” The halfling glared fiercely. “Bella, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but I don’t like it. You’ll be lucky if I’m still hanging onto that spiderweb the next time you drop by.”