Page 86 of Dragon Fight

“Suits for women,” Brom replied with a smile. “It's creating somewhat of a fuss amongst the older generation, but apparently women wearing what has traditionally been male dress is becoming a fashionable thing.”

I drew closer, peering through the glass appreciating how the creator had cunningly shaped the suits to fit a woman in a way that made clear her femininity.

“You could order some if you like, scandalise the other officers.”

I shot him a rueful look, but before I could formulate a response, I was whisked inside.

As soon as we walked in, the same woman I’d seen on my previous visit smiled, then rushed over and took my hands.

“Lady Pippin, I am honoured you would return to my humble shop. The wing commander sent word that you would need an entire wardrobe created?”

I shot Brom a hard look, and he just smiled.

“Ah yes, as a wife of an officer, I think I’m going to need a few things.”

“A few things!” The dressmaker tossed her hands in the air. “Your husband has given me quite the list, but I am happy to say I have a few pieces readymade I think you might like. The wing commander sent word that I should start making some items for you the night after we first met.”

When I was forced to become engaged to him, but well before we’d formed any kind of real relationship. I gazed at Brom, searching his face and finding an unending warmth in his eyes.

“I was waiting until you had time to come down for a final fitting, but I think what I have will fit you well.” The seamstress stepped back as if to measure me with her eyes. “I think it will be very close. Now, come and see.”

I remembered Brom’s declaration the night of the ball at the palace, when Zafira rose, and the pain in his eyes as he strapped the daggers to my thighs, the same ones I still wore at my sides. He’d somehow loved me, even then. I knew that. My own heart had been too bruised to return those feelings. But now? The dressmaker ushered us into an adjoining room where two mannequins stood, sporting two outfits custom made for me at his order.

For some women it was poetry and bouquets of pretty flowers that won their hearts. Others needed the security that came from social class and healthy bank balances to relax enough to love. But as I walked closer, something else reached inside my chest and squeezed at my heart, making it ache so sweetly. On one mannequin was a suit, like the ones in the window. And the other? A dress so beautiful I was sure it couldn’t possibly be for me.

I didn’t wear men’s clothing so much from a sense of being a man. Living side by side with four of them now, I was very sure I wasn’t one. But as a young woman, every time I’d tried to put on something feminine I’d heard my stepmother and my stepsister’s snide comments. Even Draven had made his share. I felt like I had been caught in this impossible situation, forced by society to wear the garb of women and then judged endlessly if I did. Wearing men’s clothing had been my solution to this, even better, the uniform of a rider. I felt like it masked me, Pippin—the woman—and instead cast me as yet another rider, with my whole identity coming from the role I played.

“Wear whichever one suits you.” Brom came to stand by my side, reaching down and taking my hand in his to caress the palm with his thumb. “Get whatever makes you feel comfortable; as beautiful as I know you to be.”

“The wing commander urged me not to make more than the two,” the dressmaker explained, “but…” She smiled sheepishly. “Well, let's try them on and see, shall we?”

The bossylittle woman escorted me into a change room, her arms full of grand clothing, and I felt like I was a passive little doll, allowing her to order me about. I stripped down at her command, her comments about needing more suitable underwear making me flinch. She caught my expression as she stared into my reflection in the mirror before nodding.

“You’ll look beautiful, I promise, milady,” she said, putting a hand on my arm. “I’ve dressed up far less promising young women before and every one of them has walked out of here a queen. It’s no hardship doing that for you. Now, the dress. Yes or no?”

She was ready to whisk it away, to dispose of a garment if it displeased me, because I wasn’t a pig herder anymore. I was a lady, a rider, the wife of an important man and I was due such courtesy. I nodded, indicating my willingness to put it on and she hung the suit up on a hook on the wall before spreading out the folds of rich fabric in the skirt and helped me to step inside.

“Now, this design isn’t much like the ones the highborn lasses wear,” she told me almost as a warning, but I could see that. Rather than having a scooped neckline to display my breasts, like ripe peaches on a tray, the dress was designed with a slit neck that meant that my whole decolletage was covered. But she was cunning with her design, this seamstress. She’d fitted the bodice precisely so that it followed the line of my body, my shoulders, my chest and my breasts. It was deceptively modest and yet left nothing to the imagination. Then, as if in counterpoint to the fitted bodice, the dress flared out over my hips, a great flurry of fabric exaggerating what curves I had, the folds of fabric creating a softness I didn’t associate with myself at all.

My hands shook as I lifted them to smooth the dress over my hips. I shifted back and forth, seeing how tiny my waist looked now, the width of my shoulders almost exaggerating it. I looked tall and willowy, slender as a reed and just as resilient and as my hands went to my face…

I felt beautiful.

“Oh my… You…” As I stammered, the seamstress hung on my every word. She deserved an eloquent response, absolutely deserved it, but that was not what I managed. “I… feel beautiful.”

“Oh, you are, milady,” the woman said, in a passionate voice. “Every woman has a style that suits them. Those lasses up at the castle couldn’t wear something like this: the tight bodice would make their bosoms look like a fat sausage. But you… In some ways, once I understood your form, I realised it’s easier to dress you. Your slenderness makes the fabric fall beautifully.”

Finally, there was a practical use to my odd body. Then I ran my hand through my short crop of hair, much longer than it had been, but still the length of a boy’s.

“I guess I’ll need a wig for a dress like this.”

“Only if that is what you wish. I have plenty for you to look at but…” She pursed her lips and then nodded. “I’ll be back in a moment to show you another option.”

I blinked as she closed the door of the change room, leaving me there to stare at my reflection. Somehow, that was something I needed. This Pippin, the one who looked like a woman, a lady, she needed to be reintegrated into my sense of self. Yet another facet to the rough-cut stone of who I was.

“Now, this will seem strange, but bear with me,” the seamstress said when she returned, gesturing for me to lean down. As I did so she cracked a tin of sweet smelling pomade, working it into my hair and then her comb and fingers moved quickly, restyling my hair in a whole new way. Then she produced a velvet box within which was a pair of huge diamond earrings. “The wing commander had these sent over yesterday. He seemed to think they would be needed and, for once, a man was right.” She held them out for me to insert, the weight feeling strangely familiar.

Because I had worn such things once. Our family had its jewels and, when Mother died, they became mine. The right to wear them was something I’d looked forward to. But my step family had snatched that away. Arabella couldn’t bear for anyone to upstage her so my mother’s jewels would go ‘missing’ any time I wore them until I was too afraid to bring any of them out of the vault. Those thoughts were dismissed from my mind as I straightened up and looked at what had been done, and I recognised that this seamstress was very clever indeed.

---