Page 114 of A Tower of Half-Truths
Inside the waiting area were finely dressed women ranging from around Mavery’s age to grandmotherly. Most of them were biding their time on the plush sofas, reading novels and fashion magazines. But one of them remained standing, arms crossed and foot tapping, as she watched the door to one of the dressing rooms.
A tawny-haired girl emerged from it, swathed in a gown that dwarfed her petite figure. Following closely on the girl’s heels was a raven-haired seamstress who carried the gown’s train with one hand while pinching the bodice closed with the other. And following onherheels was the woman who refused to continue watching from a distance.
“Please, Madam Fallstad, you mustwait.” The seamstress’s tone indicated she’d uttered that phrase too many times today. She deposited the girl in front of a mirror, then spread her arms and ushered the other woman back to the waiting area.
“Mirabel is making her Society debut on Siddisday!” Madam Fallstad snapped. Like most noblewomen Mavery had ever encountered, her voice was grating, her tone insolent. “Her dress must beperfect.”
“And it will be—if you allow me to do my work.”
With a huff, Madam Fallstad lowered herself onto one of the sofas, clasped her gloved hands in her lap. The seamstress noticed Mavery lingering by the front desk.
“Do you have an appointment?” She nearly had to yell over the chatter from the shop floor.
“Yes, with Priscilla.”
“Youhave an appointment with Madam Tesseraunt?”
In an eerily Priscilla-like manner, the seamstress’s eyes roved over Mavery’s outfit. Not wanting to look completely out of place, Mavery had worn her nicest blouse today, though she suspected her trousers negated the effect. The seamstress sighed, then flipped through the appointment book atop the front desk.
“She has nothing scheduled at this time today. What did you say your name was?”
“Mavery Culwich. Maybe it’s under her son’s name. He—”
“Sorry, did you say ‘May-bree’?”
“Not to worry, Lydia. I understood her perfectly.”
The seamstress flinched as Priscilla approached from behind. Alain’s mother wore a high-necked, long-sleeved dress in deep violet. Mavery took the color to be a uniform of sorts, as all the staff wore similar shades.
“I’ll see to Ms. Culwich while you see to Miss Worton’s measurements,” Priscilla said.
“But I’m already double-booked with Miss Fallstad and Miss…” Priscilla narrowed her eyes, and Lydia bowed her head. “Of course, Madam Tesseraunt.”
She hurried back to Mirabel Fallstad, who seemed on the verge of collapsing under the weight of her voluminous dress. Priscilla turned to Mavery.
“This way,” she said.
Mavery followed her across the shop floor. Instead of stopping behind one of the room dividers or inside one of the dressing rooms, Priscilla led her into the backroom. When she closed the door, the sounds of chatter quieted at once. Mavery tasted copper and noticed a sheen of violet over the door. She suspected the soundproofing, like the wards guarding the building, had also been Alain’s doing.
Through the sheer curtain hanging in the window, sunlight cast a cozy glow over the small room. It was primarily used for storage: sewing machines, dress forms, and crates of fabric had been deposited here haphazardly. A full-length mirror leaned against the wall, and there was enough floorspace for a small round platform.
“Disrobe, but leave on your undergarments,” Priscilla said, wasting no time for pleasantries.
Deciding there was no point in postponing the awkwardness, Mavery unbuttoned her blouse. She recognized the absurdity in how she hadn’t yet stripped before Alain—that was a thought she’d only entertained in the privacy of a hot bath—but here she was, standing in her undergarments beforehis mother.
“This is aslightimprovement over what you wore the first time we met,” Priscilla said, giving Mavery’s blouse a scrutinizing sneer.
Mavery fought the urge to roll her eyes as she handed Priscilla her trousers. Priscilla’s frown deepened as she draped them, along with the blouse, over a chair.
“Do you own any petticoats?” Priscilla asked, then shook her head. “Silly question. Do you at least own a chemise?”
“Not unless you count my sleeping shift.”
Her hard stare indicated that it did not. “Have youeverworn a dress?”
The last time had been when she and Neldren had stolen some formal attire from a laundry, then infiltrated an estate sale. Neldren had distracted the auctioneer with mundane questions about stamp collections and such, while she had tucked small heirlooms beneath her neckline, inside her gloves, under her skirts. It had been one of their most lucrative cons.
“On occasion,” Mavery said. “I don’t get invited to many formal events.”
