Terven’s shop still managed looked respectable, despite what Seren had received earlier.
Seren had been prepared for awkwardness. For discretion. For perhaps one or two mortified apprentices staring very hard at the floor. She had prepared herself for a tailor attempting to discuss women’s underthings with the delicacy of a man crossing a frozen pond while carrying glass.
She had not prepared for industry.
At first glance, the shop was normal. Bolts of cloth stood along one wall, arranged by colour and quality. A cutting table occupied the centre. Mannequins on display, one with a half-finished sleeve pinned into place as though it expected the rest of the body to arrive later.
Then Seren saw the second table.
It had been pulled near the back of the shop, not hidden. Hidden things suggested shame. This had been laid out with professional intent.
There were sketches. Many sketches. Cloth samples. Soft lining. Firmer cloth. Straps in several widths. Small fastenings. Pieces of shaped stitching pinned to scraps as though they were evidence in a trial.
Brannick stopped beside her. He did not speak. This was one of the reasons she intended to marry him. He had mastered when not to speak.
Terven appeared from behind a curtain looking like a man who had slept very little and thought far too much. His hair was tied back neatly, but not perfectly. There was chalk on one cuff. His eyes moved to Seren, then Brannick, then immediately to a point somewhere safely between them.
“Mistress Seren,” he said.
His voice was formal enough to sign a treaty.
“Terven,” Seren replied.
There was a pause.
It was a terrible pause. It contained the knowledge that no one in the room had a graceful way forward.
Terven cleared his throat.
“Thank you for attending. I understand the inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience,” Seren repeated.
The word stood there for a moment, looked at the table, and died.
Terven’s ears reddened slightly. “Yes.”
Seren looked at the sketches again. “How long have you been working on this?”
Terven’s gaze flicked toward the table with an expression that might have been embarrassment, pride, or the onset of a fever.
“Since Master Alric commissioned the garments,” he said. “His explanation was not detailed, naturally. He spoke mostly of support, comfort during long wear, and whether such an article could be made.”
“Naturally,” Seren said.
Because of course Alric had not described anything properly. He did not have the necessary experience, equipment, or, thankfully, imagination. He had likely stood here and used words like support while Terven quietly went mad.
“From there,” Terven continued, with the careful tone of a man stepping onto thin ice, “certain practical questions came up.”
“Did they?”
“Yes.”
Brannick looked at the wall.
Terven placed both hands behind his back, perhaps to stop them reaching for the sketches. “Strap width, fastening placement, cloth firmness, washing, repeated wear, lower support, side pressure, movement when walking.”
Seren closed her eyes. There it was. Not Alric’s madness. This was Terven’s.
Alric had given him a problem and half a solution. Terven had become a man trying to solve it.
“For uh… reasons,” Terven said quickly, “my senior assistant will handle all direct fitting. I will remain behind the screen and ask only technical questions through her.”
The curtain moved and a woman stepped out.
She was older than Seren by some years, with rolled sleeves, pinned hair, and the air of someone who had spent a lifetime fixing other people’s mistakes before they became visible. Her eyes moved over Seren once, not rudely, but with quick professional interest.
Not at all embarrassed while she studied Seren’s chest.
“This is Gwyn,” Terven said. “She has assisted with women’s fittings for many years.”
Gwyn inclined her head. Brannick visibly relaxed at the presence of another woman.
That lasted until Terven gestured to a chair just outside the curtained fitting area.
“Master Brannick, if you would be willing to wait here.”
The chair had been placed beside a wooden mug of tea and biscuits. The whole arrangement had the quiet desperation of people who had anticipated a man needing something to do with his hands.
Brannick looked at the chair. Then at Seren. Then at the curtain. Then back at the chair.
“I’ll wait,” he said.
His voice had the controlled calm of a soldier being assigned to an exposed wall during a siege.
Seren followed Gwyn behind the curtain.
The fitting area was small and painfully proper. There was a polished metal mirror, a bench, folded linen, pins, chalk, and silence.
Gwyn did not fuss. That helped. She did stare. Which did not help. Seren had been made to disrobe quickly. Gwyn’s hands were brisk and professional as she checked the straps, the band, and the way the garment sat beneath the dress.
“The first issue is the shoulder,” Gwyn said after less than a minute.
Behind the screen, Terven’s charcoal scratched once.
Seren heard it.
Gwyn continued, already thinking aloud. “The shoulder is doing too much. The lower part needs to carry more of the work, or it will become painful by afternoon. The strap is not wrong, but it is not generous enough. The side piece wants more shape.”
Seren stared at her in the mirror.
Gwyn met her eyes. “Breathe.”
Seren breathed.
“No,” Gwyn said. “Properly, deep breath, imagine that man out there disappointed you and he needs to know.”
Seren gave her a flat look. Gwyn appeared unmoved. Seren took a deep breath and let out a proper sigh.
The bra allowed it.
Annoyingly.
Gwyn nodded, then made her lift her arms, lower them, turn as though someone had called from behind, sit, stand, and walk three paces. Then she asked Seren to walk as though carrying something heavy.
“I am not carrying something heavy.”
“You often do?”
Seren opened her mouth. Closed it and walked.
From beyond the screen, Terven’s voice came formal and strained.
“Does the lower support shift?”
Brannick’s chair creaked outside.
Gwyn checked. “Not much. It wants a lower adjustment.”
More scratching.
“Does the shoulder pull when she turns?”
“A little.”
“Wider strap?”
“Not only wider,” Gwyn said. “Better angle.”
The chair creaked again.
Terven asked, “Would a front fastening improve it?”
Something wooden clicked against something else outside.
Seren imagined Brannick staring into his tea as though it contained instructions for surviving this.
Gwyn’s mouth twitched. “No, not with her. I think it’s fine.”
There was a silence.
Then Brannick said, from outside the curtain, in the tone of a man surrounded by knives, “I apologise.”
“No one asked you anything,” Seren said.
“I know.”
Gwyn made one small adjustment at the side, then another at the strap. The change was insulting in its simplicity.
Seren felt it immediately.
Her shoulders eased. Her shoulders simply stopped holding a complaint they had apparently been making for years.
Seren stared at the mirror. Gwyn noticed.
“There,” Gwyn said.
“Do not sound pleased.”
“It sits better.”
Seren had no answer to that. Behind the screen, the charcoal began moving faster.
“Terven,” Seren said.
“Yes, Mistress Seren?”
“Are you smiling?”
“No.”
He was absolutely smiling.
Seren could feel it through the curtain. She was made to put her dress back on.
Gwyn made another note, then stepped back and studied the line of Seren’s dress with an expression that had left ordinary tailoring behind and entered dangerous territory.
“This changes the dress,” Gwyn said. “It changes how you stand.”
Gwyn’s eyes sharpened, there was an almost feral light in them. “It changes how we should cut bodices. It changes everything.”
Seren turned her head slowly.
“No.”
Gwyn blinked, as if remembering Seren was present. Behind the screen, Terven made a very quiet sound.
“Terven.”
“I said nothing.”
“You thought loudly.”
“My apologies.”
Gwyn ignored both of them and moved to a folded piece on the side table. It was similar to the first garment, but not identical. Wider straps. Firmer side pieces. A cleaner front fastening.
Seren stared at it. “What is that?”
“A variation,” Gwyn said.
The word was bad. Terven, from behind the screen, said nothing. His silence was too smooth.
Seren looked at Gwyn.
Gwyn looked back with the calm of a woman who had already crossed the bridge and burned it behind her.
Then, without any coyness, she loosened the front of her own outer bodice enough to show the garment beneath.
Seren froze.
It was not indecent. Gwyn handled it too professionally for that. It was brief, controlled, and entirely practical. But the effect was unmistakable.
Gwyn was wearing one. And she looked relieved. Not excited. Not scandalised. Relieved. That was what landed.
“I needed to understand it properly,” Gwyn said. “I cannot fit what I do not understand.”
Terven remained behind the screen. Too silent.
Seren closed her eyes.
“You knew.”
Terven did not answer quickly enough.
Gwyn answered for him. “I asked.”
“That is not better.”
“It is honest.”
Seren opened her eyes.
Gwyn had fastened her bodice again and was already looking back at Seren’s silhouette in the mirror. Her expression was thoughtful in a way Seren did not like at all.
“The shoulder is the mistake,” Gwyn said. “Not yours. Ours. We have been making the shoulder do too much because it is easy to sew for the shoulder.”
Behind the screen, Terven whispered, “Too much shoulder,” and wrote it down.
Seren pointed at the curtain. “Do not write that down.”
The charcoal stopped. Then, very softly, scratched once more.
Gwyn continued, apparently beyond rescue. “Working women will need stronger cloth. Riders will need less upward shift. Mothers will want front fastening. Larger sizes cannot use the same side piece. Seamstresses will understand quickest, I think, because we all know where the pain sits by the end of the day.”
“Terven.”
“Yes?”
“Control your assistant.”
There was a pause.
“With respect,” Terven said carefully, “I do not believe that is currently possible.”
Gwyn smiled. Seren stared at him through the curtain.
Outside, Brannick stood abruptly. The chair scraped.
“I’m going to look at buttons,” he said.
No one had asked him to look at buttons. No one stopped him.
His footsteps moved away with the controlled dignity of a man retreating from a burning building while pretending he had always intended to inspect the street.
The fitting continued, mercifully faster after that. Gwyn marked the adjustments, changed one strap angle, pinned the side support, and made Seren do one final humiliating movement that involved reaching, turning, and sitting in quick succession.
“It works,” Gwyn said.
“You sound disappointed.”
“I am thinking.”
When Seren was properly dressed again, Terven emerged from behind the screen with his eyes fixed very firmly on his own notes. His face was composed. His eyes were not.
His eyes looked like Alric’s when someone showed him something boring.
Seren found that deeply concerning.
Gwyn stood beside him, hands folded, wearing the expression of a woman who had discovered a new profession inside her old one.
Seren adjusted her sleeves. “This needs to remain discreet.”
“Of course,” Terven said.
“No,” Seren said. “Not tailor discreet. Actually discreet.”
Terven’s expression became carefully blank.
“Alric’s name must not be attached to this.”
A pause.
“Not publicly,” Seren continued. “Not in your shop. Not through gossip. Not as Master Alric’s clever idea. Not as anything. If this spreads, and apparently the two of you have already decided it will, it cannot have his name on it.”
Terven avoided her eyes. Just for a moment. He glanced at Gwyn.
Gwyn, who was looking at Seren’s silhouette with deep professional satisfaction, grinned.
Seren saw the grin. The grin saw her seeing it. Seren understood far too much.
People would ask. Of course they would ask. The dress sat better. Her shoulders looked different. Gwyn knew it. Terven knew Gwyn knew it. The garment did not need Alric’s name if it could advertise itself beneath clothing.
“That was not reassuring,” Seren said.
Terven folded his hands. “Discretion is central to my profession.”
“That was also not reassuring.”
“No,” Terven admitted.
Seren stepped out into the main shop.
Brannick turned from a display of buttons with the intensity of a man who had been studying them for survival.
He looked at her. Properly.
He simply said, “I can’t lie to you. You look amazing.”
Seren stared at him.
Terven became fascinated by a measuring cord.
Gwyn looked delighted.
Brannick held very still.
Seren sighed.
Then, to her own horror, pouted. A little.
“It does,” she said.
Brannick nodded once, wisely accepting the victory without celebration.
The adjusted garment would be finished that evening, Terven explained. The others would follow once Gwyn had finalised the changes. He said finalised with the care of a man trying not to say developed.
Seren heard it anyway.
They were nearly at the door when Terven made his final mistake.
“Mistress Seren,” he said.
Seren turned to him with a dangerous glint in her eye.
Terven drew himself up with doomed professionalism. “Do you know any women of a different build who might be willing to assist? Discreetly, of course.”
Seren stared at him. Brannick closed his eyes.
Gwyn appeared deeply interested in a shelf.
“No,” Seren said.
Immediately.
Absolutely.
With the full authority of a woman protecting civilisation from men with measuring cords.
Terven bowed his head. “Of course.”
“No one.”
“I understand.”
There was a long pause.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Understood.”
Gwyn’s mouth moved slightly. Seren turned to her. Gwyn became still.
Seren left before anyone could invent a reason for her to stay.
The bell above the door rang as she and Brannick stepped into the street. Fresh air touched her face. The city moved around them, entirely unaware that a new form of trouble had just acquired notes, samples, and a senior assistant.
For several steps, neither of them spoke.
Then Brannick said, “That went better than expected.”
Seren looked at him. He reconsidered.
“That went,” he corrected.
“Better.”
He nodded slowly. “It went.”
They walked on.
Seren tried to feel victorious. She had told Terven to keep Alric’s name out of it. She had refused further testing. She had prevented the matter from becoming larger than it already was, which was not at all large, because it was contained.
Strictly contained. Absolutely contained.
Margaret.
Seren stopped walking. Brannick stopped beside her.
“What?” he asked.
Seren stared down the street.
Margaret would understand immediately. Margaret would ask questions. Margaret would demand to see it. Margaret would laugh until she could not breathe. Margaret would know other women. Margaret would consider this a necessity in magery.
Seren closed her eyes.
“Oh no,” she said.
Brannick looked genuinely alarmed. “What?”
Seren opened her eyes and resumed walking.
“Nothing.”
It was already not nothing.