Second-Hand Dresses

Chapter 7: Reparations

In many quarters, there is no such thing as a kusire. An unwed man remains a besire until the day he dies.

—Klaus de Hakrin, The Standards of Tarsan

Lily hummed to herself as she unrolled the fabric for Nirih's dress across a large table in the back of her store. The light material easily covered the rod-long surface before slumping off the far end. With practiced grace, she set down the weights as she pictured the pattern she would cut out.

Among all of her current projects, Nirih's dress was the most important. The girl's parents would ensure that she was seen everywhere it mattered, that her name was announced in the perfect moments of calm, and that every step she took would be in the full view of the upper echelons of High Society. For one night, Lily's work would be draped over the the center of attention.

With a sigh, Lily reached over and plucked her wineglass from the table. It was heavy despite being half-full, the glass was weighted to avoid tipping and she had just opened the bottle. It was a good year, moderate in cost and light to the taste, but she liked to make the bottle last an entire night of sewing. Sewing drunk never worked.

She glanced at the fabric. The pattern wavered in her head for a moment as she imagined the cloth draping over Nirih's body. With a steady hand, she began to block out the shapes and lines with a stick of chalk. When she made a mistake or changed her mind, she would use her pinkie finger to erase it before redrawing the line.

The initial design was easy, most dresses had the same basic construction. It wasn't until she got into the details, how the fabric would accent Nirih's breasts or cling to her shoulders, that Lily found herself doubting her own skill. The gravity of her situation, the force of a thousand imagined eyes, made it hard to concentrate because every line had to be perfect.

She struggled with each part, working through the patterns in both her head on fabric. The world slipped away, lost in a haze of shifting lines, smeared chalk, and the steadily decreasing level of wine in her glass.

It wasn't until hours later that she had just redone the collar at least a dozen times. Each time, the lines didn't feel right. She tried the classic patterns and the more modern ones, but they wouldn't accent Nirih's shape in a way that felt right to Lily. Something was off but she couldn't put her finger on it.

With a hiss, she stared at the dusty fabric for a long moment while rolling the stick in her hand. She knew what she thought would work, a cowl collar instead of a scoop or even a square, but it wasn't traditional for a mother like Djulian. In fact, it would be somewhat shocking since it hid more than showed the girl's beauty. On the other hand, her gut feeling was that it would emphasize the right parts and the exoticness of the collar was different enough to draw attention.

Lily hated her decision. Her dress was only one part of Nirih's presentation, there were milliners and shoes and makeup and even perfumes. The lace businesses. Different combinations over the days would accumulate into finding a husband.

High Society was also superstitious. If Nirih found a wealthy mate, then every business that supplied her outfits would benefit as the next year's debutantes would flock to them in hopes of stealing a bit of that luck.

Likewise, if the presentation went disastrously, such as Lily's own, then business could dry up. Nine years ago, a seamstress and a milliner closed their doors in part because of Lily's trouble.

It was cruel to have so many businesses hanging off the actions of a few teenage girls, but that was the nature of lace businesses. They needed to be associated with enough good marriages to weather the bad showing. The richer businesses could be more selective of their clientele, but Lily didn't have the years of history behind her to avoid risky projects.