Chương 45: Chapter 41 ~ A Dinner; A Dress (Part 1)

15/11/1111 EotTS 18: 04 The post-office door swung shut with a thud, and Wyohla and Gysel started westward through the chilled fog of autumn. It was rather quiet at this hour; most people were home, with a warm orange glow coming from nearly every apartment window, leaving the only people on the streets those who were looking for dinner, or a dress, or both.

Wyohla's boots clicked and clacked against the cobbled street; her pace was slower to-night despite the rush, but it was still a good idea to wait for Wyohla to stop walking before talking. Eventually, after arriving at the crosswalk, Wyohla did come to a stop beneath a street-light, and the shadow of the already tall woman was cast long down the rocks, and into the fog.

"Thank you," said Gysel, as she looked around, scanning the eaves and roofs of buildings; the ravens came out at night.

"You're very welcome," answered Wyohla, as she produced her pipe from the pocket of her overcoat (she had insisted on stopping at her house to get those two items and a few other).

"Thyres didn't do that for you, did he?"

"No. He did not. But he could not have anyway; he does not have enough money to go to a barber." Leaning against the lamp-post, Wyohla packed the pipe and lit it.

"Why do you not support him the way you support me?" continued Gysel.

"He would certainly like the allowance."

"Why?" answered Wyohla, her voice muffled and deep as smoke poured from her mouth and into the foggy night air.

"Because he is not my alchemist, you are. You can do things he can't."

"No, he is just like me, and also our friend."

"You and he, are very, very, different. He is Lyvahn's friend. I have not spoken to him privately like I do with you. I know nothing about him; I know a lot about you."

"How are we different? We are both very skilled Operative Alchemists." Wyohla pushed herself off the post and clenched her pipe between her teeth.

"Give me your right hand."

"Why?"

"Just give me your right hand." Gysel extended her right hand; Wyohla took it in her left, and with her own right hand, she wrapped her thumb, index, and middle finger around Gysel's little finger, and softly slid them along, as if removing a ring.

"And that is why you are different."

"Because I do as you ask?" Wyohla made a flicking motion with her right hand.

"Yeh—" the 's' came as smoke blowing from the corner of her mouth.

"But he would do as you asked if you paid him too. Then you would both be happy." Taking a sharp breath in, Wyohla plucked her pipe from her mouth and started across the street.

"Once Thyres is destitute to the point where he has nothing to pawn but his ring, and is going to a soup kitchen breaking his teeth on stale bread, he can ask me for financial aid. Until then, I will only be patron to the lovely maiden alchemist, Gysel Neekhilst." Gysel hurried after.

"You have enough to give me an imperial gold every week. It does not make sense that you cannot give him even a little bit as alms."

"Alms?" Wyohla laughed." Alms? How about this, Gysel: let's split the alms, hmm? You only get five full kings a week, but I also give Thyres five. How does that sound?"

"No, but I..." Gysel trailed off—no, no, the money needs to be saved, if the money is not saved, once the school year is done, it will be back to Wihrakolm, back to Mother and Father, the money is for rent and food at the Academy, anything but back home, how much would the rent be over the summer? would the gold even be enough? well, all the rich dilettanti are at the Academy, so it must be very expensive, so yes, it would, only if it is all saved.

"No. I need the money." Wyohla dug into her pocket, and paused outside the display windows of a boutique.

"Give me your hand again." Gysel did as asked, and Wyohla took her hand once more.

"I was going to give this to you after the play, but you can have it now," Wyohla said through the corner of her mouth. Removing her hand from her pocket, she placed it atop Gysel's, dropped in an imperial gold coin, then curled Gysel's fingers around it.

"If Thyres ever needs money fast, he can work a lot of different jobs to earn that money, and all it will cost him is his labor and time. If you are ever in that same position, you can only work one job, and there is no amount of gold and jewels that will ever, ever, make it worth the cost."

"You are right," answered Gysel; Thyres was a man, if he was desperate for money, he could get a job as a mercenary, or a street-sweeper, unlike Wyohla's little maiden alchemist, who was too small to fit in comfortably in armor or wield a sword, and would certainly get exhausted as a street-sweeper, so the only job that could ever be worked in such a situation was being a general alchemist in a small town, working in terrible conditions, with poor equipment and materials, it paid terribly, and would likely result in death before thirty for any variety of reason, likely mercury related.

"Good, now put that away; we're here," said Wyohla. Gysel dropped the coin into her coat pocket, where it clicked and rattled against the variety of seeds and buttons lying at the bottom. The 'here' in question was a red-brick building sitting raised about a meter upon a foundation of grey bricks. A set of stone stairs with wrought iron railings led up to the single, brown oak door.

On either side of the door were large, flush display windows, displaying posed and dressed slender mannequins, who, if they had a nose, would certainly be watching customers down their bridge. There was a sign, but only its bronze-edged corners were visible from where Gysel was standing, as it was obscured by the cream-canvas awnings above the window. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

There were two windows of a glazed and barred glass set into the foundation, with a soft orange light behind them. Wyohla started up the stairs.

"Do you shop here?" Gysel asked, as she waited for Wyohla to get a few steps ahead before following her up the steps.

"No, all of my formal clothing is bespoke. And as much as I like teasing people, ordering clothing here would just be cruel." Wyohla laughed as she opened the door, letting Gysel in. The store was well lit by a single, eight-cup chandelier, which hung centered in the ceiling, and a multitude of wall sconces, all of which were brass, with glazed glass shades on them.

Crimson paper with spiraling gold flowers drawn on it climbed along the walls, from the tops of walnut wainscoting, up to the matching coffered ceiling, where the flowers crept about inside the lacunaria, and bloomed next to the chandelier. Wheeled racks of brass and wood lined the floor on the left and right sides, with all of their contents ordered by color, but there was nothing in black.

A click-click-clicking of a needle, the creaking of a foot-pump, and the squeaking of a wheel came from a large desk at the back wall. There were six sewing machines there, but only one was occupied with a head barely visible behind the large brass machine: the lone seamstress had braided red hair, that was tied into a single high bun.

Wyohla and Gysel stood silently on the polished, hardwood floor as the woman worked, until eventually (after about thirty seconds, and likely noticing the vanilla scent of Wyohla's tobacco), she poked her head out from behind the machine: it was Lyma.

"What are you two doing here?" said Lyma, as she slowed her sewing machine to a stop.

"Gysel and I are going out for dinner, and then to a play," said Wyohla, "and she needs a dress."

"When's the play?"

"The twenty-first hour."

"I have to do my project for Spiritual Alchemy at exactly half-past the twenty-fourth hour," said Gysel.

"I cannot go. Why did you not say that sooner?"

"You will be fine, Gysel," said Wyohla.

"It won't run that long. You will be home well before the clock strikes an hour that late. It's a pretty short play."

"What play is it?" asked Lyma, as she held up the skirt she was working on and inspected the stitching.

"Tsininokha."

"Oh, you will be fine, Gysel. There are only four acts, and each is pretty short. I went with Visi and Lyvahn when they premiered it about seven maidens ago; it only took about two hours, probably less."

"Was it good?" asked Gysel.

"I don't remember; Visi talked through the whole thing."

"The only way to know is to go," said Wyohla, as she wandered off to look over the dresses on the left side.

"And I am going," replied Gysel, then she looked away from the blonde, and to Lyma.

"Do you need my measurements?"

"That would be best. In case I need to make alterations. But, I'm sure we will have something for you anyway." With the squeak of a swiveling stool, Lyma rose and walked around the counter.

"We have a fitting room back here." Gysel grumbled, and reluctantly followed; there was no point in arguing, as it was Lyma, and after what happened in the bathhouse last quarter, she knew what was under the shift—but Mother will be furious if she ever finds out. Producing a key from her pocket, Lyma unlocked and opened a dark brown door against the back wall to the right of the counter, and she ushered Gysel inside.

"Are you two just going to leave me out here... alone?" asked Wyohla in a whine.

"Yes," said both Lyma and Gysel, as the wooden door shut and was locked from the inside with a click. It was a smaller room, with three simple walnut paneled walls, and one wall to the left that was a brass-framed mirror. The same hardwood from the showroom lined the floor, but it was far more worn, leaving few places their original dark brown.

Decoration within the room was sparse: a single wooden chair; a voyeuristic oaken mannequin bearing its knots and grain for all to see; a landscape painting of rolling hills at gloam on the right wall; and a few brass sconces and hangers. Lyma removed a notepad, a pencil, and a tailor's tape from the pocket of her light brown corduroy pants.

"I'll try to be quick." Nodding, Gysel hung her coat on the doorknob (so all Wyohla would be able to see was the fabric), turned away from the mirror, and undressed down to her shift. Unrolling some of the off-white tape, Lyma got started measuring, and copying down what the gold numbers said. There was a knock on the dressing room door while Lyma had the tape around Gysel's waist, and Wyohla's voice followed; she said: "Gysel, I think I found something you would like. Can I bring it in?"

"No," said Lyma, around the pencil clasped between her teeth, "Hold onto it until we're finished."

"Well, it's a very lovely dark green. With a rather high neckline."

"I will see it after," said Gysel, with her tiring arms outstretched.

"All right... as you might say." And with fading clicks, Wyohla walked away from the door, probably looking for another dress to try again with. Muttering grievances under her breath, Lyma continued to work. After a few more minutes, and a double check, Lyma was finished. So, Gysel re-clothed, and the two left the room. Leaning against the counter, was Wyohla, and she had three different dresses draped over her left arm in a staggered display.

"I think you will like these." Gysel walked over to Wyohla, and looked over the dresses, then one by one felt the fabric, running her fingers over it, and rubbing it against her cheek—the brown one is nice, it has the longest skirt, but the fabric is awful, a rough cotton twill, and the shoulders look too tight, it will be itchy and annoying, what about this green one? is this the one that Wyohla has? it is soft, with a slight luster, cotton?

yes, cotton, though the skirt is only knee-length; that would be fine, it could just be worn with socks or leggings, the cream lace design along the hem of the skirt is nice as well, as is the covered neckline of the same lace, yes this is the one. Removing the dress from Wyohla's arm, Gysel held it out to Lyma.

"This one."

"What about the third one?" asked Wyohla. Gysel looked at the dress; it had a cream upper section, a frilly light-brown tulle middle, and a calf-length, dark brown skirt: it looked like high-fat cream being poured into tea.

"No. I want this green one."

"Well, if you want them all, I will buy you them all."

"I do not want them all. I want this one." Wyohla rolled her eyes (something in which there was no point, as she was the one asking pointless questions), and with a shrug, she took the other two back to the racks.

"Are you not going to look for yourself, Gysel?" asked Lyma, as she took the green dress. Gysel glanced over her shoulder to Wyohla, then looked over the racks; unlike Mother, Wyohla had the courtesy to provide a selection.

"No, this one will be all right." Setting the dress on the counter, Lyma searched for and found the tailor's tag (it was hanging from the inside of the waistband), looked over the measurements, then over Gysel's measurements, and spoke: "I have to adjust the height a tad; you have a shorter torso than average."

"How long will that take?" asked Wyohla.

"Not very, I just have to move the waistband up a centimeter. Maybe an... hour and a bit. How about this, you two go for dinner, then come back, and it should be done."

"Sounds good, come on, Gysel." Wyohla turned and headed for the door.

"Are we going to Bwouker's?" asked Gysel, leaving Lyma alone at the counter.

"No," said Wyohla, as she opened the door and stepped back out into the mist.

"I have somewhere else in mind."

"Not fish, please."

"It isn't. Bye, Lyma." Gysel turned back around from the doorway and waved.

"Bye, Lyma."

"Bye," answered Lyma, already starting on the dress.

"See you two in a bit." And with that, the door clicked shut, and Gysel and Wyohla headed down the stairs.