(1312-01-25) Clothes Make the Man
Summary: A Chowatti gentleman visits l'Aiguille Inspirée, seeking to enhance his wardrobe.
RL Date: Jan 25-26, 2020
Related: This and this.
jeanne andrei 

l'Aiguille Inspirée — Grand Plaza

Fine and tidy is the shop, a gifted tailor and his apprentice have set up at the grand plaza of Marsilikos. The interior is kept in lighter tones, with birch wood floors that are covered with the occasional carpet here and a runner there. A pair of tall windows provide plentiful lighting during the day, illuminating a dark mahogany desk with a few drafts of designs scattered upon it. Catching the eye upon entering are two stately dresses fitted upon tailor dummies, elaborate bodices with shimmering embroideries, impressive classy necklines and wicked variations of sleeves that leave shoulders bare. Long skirts that tend to bunch up seem to be this season's fashion, often coming in layers with the upper layer slitted at the front to sport a differing shade and pattern.

A dress form where clothes are fitted upon stands in one corner beside a fitting area, behind a drape that can be drawn, and a pair of two tall wardrobes facing each other are in an area towards the back. A chest with a number of colorful ribbons and other accessories is located beside a table where various rolls of fabrics are piling upon, qualities ranging from rough cotton to linen and more finely spun materials. There are rolls of silk in various shades, damask, samite and brocade, along with various patterns of lace in different hues. A door at the back stands most often ajar and leads to the adjoining sewing room, the place where the newest oeuvres of fashion are created

Ah, these winter mornings. Lazy, tranquil and full of leisure, as potential customers must first brave their reluctance to go outside, when the weather is freezing and flurrying. The tailor's assistant is quite at leisure at the moment, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the counter, and her chin on one palm, as she looks towards the windows, dreamy or at least in thoughts. Jeanne looks d'Angeline, but with a good portion of foreign blood thrown in. Her skin is more of olive colour than pale, and her dark hair is gathered into a modest knot at the nape of her neck. The woman looks to be in her early twenties, and she is clad in a plain dress befitting the station of a commoner — even if the perceptive eye might notice the good quality of the work. It may be one of her own creations.

Currently, Jeanne is the only person present at the front of the shop, but there is some humming and whistling that can be heard from the back, the humming especially striking in its lower baritone register.

The man who wanders inside is very obviously a foreigner; many d'Angeline are pale and blond also, but the cut of his clothes is entirely wrong. To the eye of someone in the sartorial trade he is very obviously a northerner, elegantly dressed but oh so very provincial or exotic, depending on one's preference for all things foreign. Walking with a silver-tipped walking stick, his coat is too long, his breeches the wrong shade of dark grey, the cravat tied with the knot that was in fashion last year; hopelessly in need of assistance.

The foreigner wanders in, quite likely drawn by the swathes of cloths and other indications that this is indeed the kind of shop that provides tailors' services, looking around with the slightly lost impression of someone who's quite new in town.

<FS3> Jeanne rolls Perception: Great Success. (6 6 1 7 4 6 6 8 5 3 7 7)

The young woman is drawn out of her contemplations in the moment the soft creaking sound of the door alerts her to someone entering. What Andrei will be able to observe is a quick shift in posture, as Jeanne straightens and stands there suddenly, hands laced before her, the motion executed not without a certain amount of grace. An amiable smile blossoms on her features as she moves around the counter and offers a curtsey towards the stranger, whose clothes must give him away. "Bonjour, my lord. You look like you are new in town. Jeanne. At your service. Are you wishing for anything in particular? A new set of fine courtly garb, perhaps?", she offers.

There are a few garments on display, dresses and courtly gowns but also gentlemen'S clothes.

A flicker of relief dances across the features of the pale foreigner at the woman's greeting; he seems to have guessed right as concerns the nature of the shop at least. With a small, slightly crooked smile he replies, "Nothing quite so fancy, I fear — but perhaps some advice on how to… Shall we say, draw the eye less? I do feel somewhat I might as well wear a brand on my brow reading 'from out of town'." His accent is very obviously not local though at least not so pronounced that one must struggle to understand what he is saying.

Jeanne's manner of speech is well pronounced and without any foreign accent, of course, as she seems to be a local. "Nothing quite so fancy?", she echoes as she takes a step aside, pulling a set of breeches and doublet from a pile of neatly folded garments from a nearby table. "Something to blend in more?" Holding out the garments to Andrei so that he may check the quality. "This here would be quite in order to wear when exploring the city. If you are looking for something to wear at courtly occasions, hmm, this would expected to be fancy. Even if there are several layers to fancy, and we at l'Aiguille have a more subtle style. Monsieur Chevalier, that is. He is in charge of the place."

"Nothing quite so fancy indeed," says the gentleman and wanders over to look and indeed, feel the garments that Jeanne puts up for his perusal. "I must obviously send the wrong signals as is — pray tell, do I look like a man who is expected at court?" The question seems genuine enough; not a trace of mockery in his voice as he inquires.

He studies the shirts with an interested eye, noting that quite a few of the fancier specimens appear to be in white and cream shades, no doubt because a holiday on that theme is rapidly approaching. "I certainly seem to give very mixed impressions. I've had the pleasure of speaking with a few nobles who assumed me to be an upstart commoner, and now I am assumed an aristocrat," he murmurs, very obviously amused by the situation.

"Oh… I am sorry." Jeanne lowers her gaze. "Perhaps I am wrong, but then on the other hand, I am expected to anticipate and assess the potential wishes of a customer. Foreigners have a more lax take on fashion. Often, that is. Your clothes to me look finer than what would be worn by the standard commoner. We have clothes for a variety of customers and occasions. If you want to wear something that makes you like upper middle class, for instance… Here. The dark green is subdued and the quality is good. If you like, I can take measurements for a pair of breeches and a jacket to go with it. Perhaps a shirt to go with it?"

The pale man nods good-naturedly. "As it happens, I am looking for a bit of everything, but not at once. At the time being, I am a merchant come to speak with merchants, and I would like to look the part. If I should somehow come upon an invitation to court, perhaps I may solicit your services to dress me up like a suitable peacock too." He offers the young woman a small, somewhat apologetic smile; perhaps realising that he came across a little sharply.

"I am partial to shades of grey, black and blue, but I do like the quality of this material," the man murmurs, feeling it — through gloves of black kidskin, that — while finely tailored — surely must impede his sense of touch. "I think I may subject myself to your measuring tape indeed, miss. My name is Andrei Anghelescu — I imagine that you will want at least a name and possibly some sort of front payment, particularly from a foreigner?"

"Yes, my lord. I mean… Monsieur." Jeanne dips into another hint of a curtsey. As she raises her gaze, her dark eyes glimmer with a strange mixture of eagerness and amusement. "Clothes befitting a merchant. Yes. Certainly. Perhaps, we should save the dark green for the other project, then? Dark green has a certain dramatic air to it, it might look more adequate in a courtly doublet…" Her demeanor shifts, going thoughtful as she regards the fabric assessed in that gloved hand. "I think I already have an idea for the courtly arrangement, but pray, don't feel pressed, Monsieur… Anghelescu. Blue, black and grey. Do you want these colors combined for the immediate commission? I would suggest, a shirt of light grey, and a jacket, black, with cuffs of blue? We could combine that with breeches of the same blue. I can take this quality of fabric to go by." Even as she speaks, she moves away from Andrei, and back behind the counter. Opening the book of commissions, she begins to write down his name. "André Anghelesquou?" At least this will be the spelling she treats it to, on paper.

"Close enough," Anghelescu agrees with a chuckle; he's certainly heard worse bastardisations of his name — say what you will about the d'Angeline, foreign tongues are not their strong suit. "I am staying at the Leaping Fish, in case you need an address as well. How would you feel about perhaps a darker grey for the shirt? I like the sound of the rest. I imagine you know more about the courtly arrangement than I do — considering that I only know that it's in winter and it's a ball. And, well, courtly."

"Ah, I see." The detail of where he lodges are noted in the book, in a handwriting that may look a touch too elegant for a commoner. When Andrei replies to her suggestion about the color of the shirt, Jeanne looks up, keeping the quill between her fingers, even as the outer side of her palm brushes over the side of the book, the writing utensil held in such a manner that there is no danger of accidentally staining the page. "Dark grey. Certainly." She nods, and her gaze flicks downward for a brief moment. "The courtly arrangement? Are you referring to the ball, Monsieur Anghelescu? It is a ball held at the ducal palace. We call it Dome of the Lady. Her Grace, Armandine de Mereliot has invited nobility and foreign dignitaries to attend. Are you, Monsieur, such a dignitary?", she wonders with only a hint of misplaced impertinence. Even so, her dark eyes lift to meet his gaze. "If you are, we shall make you look like one."

"I do not think I am," Anghelescu replies, equally amused. "Or if I am, at least no one's remembered to notify the palace of my gracing the city with my benevolent presence. If I was a man of such great importance one should assume my name would be recognised on its own, yes? I wondered mostly because a lady yesterday assumed that I would be attending — whether it was an affair for the entire city, or indeed, limited to the gentry. I am a newcomer to your fair city, and I am finding that many things are very different here from what I would have assumed, if I were indeed still at home."

He pauses a moment and then, almost as an afterthought, asks, "Pray tell, do you think you might help supply me with clothes for riding also? I seem to have made a local acquaintance who enjoys rides around the city, and she rather hinted that I should acquire a horse. Probably because riding two on hers may send the wrong message."

"A pity," Jeanne counters, with a faint grin. "I believe, I… I mean… Monsieur Chevalier would be able to make you look the part quite well." She turns her head, looking towards the window. "The ball is still a week or so away, Monsieur. If your should change your mind… Please be aware that I will need… two or three days." But then again, it looks like she will already be busy with the other commission. "Riding clothes? Certainly, Monsieur. We have a few readymade riding breeches, I believe one of them should fit you quite well…" Again, she lets her gaze sweep over his appearance, taking in his height and other measurements. "For the merchant's clothes, I need to take your measurements, though. We have a room at the back, where Monsieur Chevalier and I usually are working. But… I can take your measurements right here, if you like?"

"Ah, I believe that I might prefer to undress somewhat more privately," Anghelescu chuckles. "Depending, of course, upon what state of undress is required for measurements. Please, tell me where to go — I've served, I can take orders." He is on the tall side and quite honestly, a bit too thin — one could get the impression that he's the kind of man who tends to skip meals, or possibly not in entirely good health. "Tell me, though — someone in your particular profession must have a good eye for the clothes people wear and the impressions they wish to give. What kind of man accompanies a young noblewoman wearing drab grey? I saw such a man yesterday and wondered quite a bit as the lady in question was already escorted by four men in ducal livery."

"Of course." Again, Jeanne dips her head in a nod. "I would suggest that we withdraw to the sewing room, my… Monsieur. Taking measurements requires you to discard your jacket. It could look odd to anyone entering the shop, perhaps." It is a thought that is put forth gently and with a faint hint of amusement that remains subtle and hard to grasp. "Please, follow my, Monsieur." She leads him to a door at the back which is left slightly ajar. "Ah… monsieur. That must have been a Cassiline brother. The young noblewoman you mention must be of a high rank to have such a particular guard with her," she offers over her shoulder.

Sewing Room — l'Aiguille Inspirée

This chamber is spacious, with a working table in the center where usually rolls of finest fabric are piled upon - silks, samite, damask and lengths of lace and ornamental embroidered bordures. Four windows illuminate the room during the day, admitting the light from outside, while on late evenings there are a number of oil lamps burning, on rare occasions when commissions are nearing their deadline. The chamber is clean, the wooden floor swept regularly, and at the walls are various cabinets, holding a variety of yarns, clasps and buttons. Three tailor dummies are set in the corners, sometimes drawn into the center when seamstresses are working towards finishing a dress or a stately doublet.

A door at the back leads to a corridor with modest living quarters of those that work at l'Aiguille.

They enter the sewing room, and Jeanne offers a nod to the man working there. "Monsieur Chevalier. Monsieur Anghelescu here wishes to have measurements taken."

The tailor looks up from his work, a bit distractedly at first. "Ah, Jeanne. Fine. I'll leave this to you. Excuse me, monsieur, I have do do some accounts at the front. And after all, someone must be there, in case we get more customers…" And there he leaves the two to their task, not quite closing the door behind him.

The foreigner trails along as directed, nodding politely to the tailor and looking, perhaps, a little relieved to not be asked to dress down in the middle of a public shop front; the d'Angeline have demonstrated a quite, ah, unorthodox approach to all matters private and personal so far, and on some level, he would not have been surprised — though uncomfortable, definitely.

"Some lady selling onions did tell me that the lady in question was of the ducal family, yes. The fellow was a guard of some sort, then? I get the feeling that when you say, what, 'Cassiline brother' you don't mean 'bloke she hired at the inn last Wednesday'." Anghelescu unbuttons his coat and folds it neatly over a chair. Wouldn't do for it to be wrinkled later.

"She is a lady of House Mereliot then." The way, Jeanne's voice lifts a little in pitch towards the end makes the statement sound almost like a question. "Perhaps one of the daughters of Her Grace?" She was about to assist Andrei with the coat, but as he is taking care of that on his own, she lowers her hands, tilting her head a little as she considers his questioning statement. "A Cassiline…", she begins and then hesitates. "A Cassiline brother has been trained to guard from when he was ten years old. There is nothing else for him but to serve and protect. They are sworn to celibacy, so that they are not distracted and never lose their focus on their one single purpose. They are trained in a monastery, in the spirit and ways of Cassiel. How much do you know of d'Angeline religion, monsieur?" She reaches for a long ribbon. "Please, monsieur. Would you stretch your arms out to the side, so that I might take measurements of your torso?"

The Carpathian positions himself as directed; this, at least, is familiar — a tailor or seamstress with a measuring tape. "Very, very little, I'm sorry to say. I've heard the stories, of course — you are all descended from angels. You are all terrible pagans. I'll have to admit that from what I have seen with my own eyes so far, you don't quite live up to the stories of debauchery and lecherous horrors that were described to me by our local priest when I decided to undertake the journey here. I suspect on some level that he wished he could be travelling along."

The man is slender, perhaps a bit more than a man of his height ought to be; one might question whether he eats enough or has suffered some kind of ailment that left him recovering. "I am going to venture a guess that these Cassiline guards are quite, shall we say, willing to deal with anyone looking at their master or mistress wrong, then."

Jeanne goes about her task, taking measurements, and now and then withdrawing to a table to put down notes. His physical state may be noted, but won't be commented on. "Debauchery," she echoes, "are you referring to our servants of Naamah? Have you encountered any of them yet?" Even so, a faint smile touches her lips when Andrei muses on a Chowatti priest's wishes and temptations. "A Cassiline will never draw his sword, unless intending to kill," she explains lightly. "They are trained to defend, not to attack unless it is absolutely necessary. They are, if you will, a very capable human shield, deflecting damage that is intended for the noble in their charge."

Anghelescu chuckles. "I have not had the pleasure yet, no. I am told, for one, that their company is strictly restricted to the aristocracy and I am very much not a d'Angeline aristocrat. A lady whom I had the pleasure of being shown around the city by did tell me that their services cover quite, shall we say, more than our priest back home assumed — that they are in fact quite skilled in other fields than, ah, entertainment? She advised me to speak with one school of courtesans on matters of herbs, I believe? Though I suppose I shall have to work out how to do so in spite of not quite qualifying to employ one of those grey-cloaked fellows."

The foreigner shakes his head slightly, clearly amused by the cultural contrasts. "It seems to me that quite a lot of effort and attention is on these matters, for a service restricted to such a small part of society. I understand that the whole — courtesan matter — is somewhat religious in nature?"

"You should visit the city of Elua, at some point," Jeanne tells Andrei as she continues with her work, measuring the breadth of shoulders, standing behind him. "There are thirteen Houses on Mont Nuit, each dedicated to a special canon of Naamah's Service. Here in Marsilikos, there are a few salons." Her fingers press lightly to the sides of his shoulders as she measures them. "You can visit a salon. Whether they will allow you to contract any of them, is another matter entirely. As for the religious aspect… you should perhaps visit the temples. Naamah, in giving herself selflessly to others, freed Blessed Elua from imprisonment. Service to Naamah in a way pays homage to this and honors Her deeds."

"Ah, so contract means… intimate services. But one is allowed to seek advice on matters such as health or herbs without a contract." Anghelescu nods his understanding as the picture is painted clearer. "That certainly will make things easier for me — considering that medical advice is what brought me to the city in the first place."

Blue eyes study the young seamstress' face for a moment, evaluating her by criteria known only to the man himself. Then he says, "Would it be impertinent of me to ask what kind of man I appear to be, to your eyes? Surely people come to Marsilikos for other purposes than to employ the services of courtesans, yet this is the one thing I get advised on the most. Do I somehow look — well, to be blunt, do I look desperate? Or is it simply that this is what usually brings foreigners here?"

"You might wish to enquire at the Salon de Coquelicot. They have courtesans trained in Balm canon," Jeanne replies softly, as she continues taking measurements of his arms. "But if it is medical advice alone you seek, you could find answers at the healers' academy and the infirmary, not too far from Eisheth's temple." More numbers are written down in the note book, before Jeanne returns to give Andrei a long assessing look. "I don't see despair in your eyes, monsieur. You look like a foreigner, and foreigners come to Marsilikos for the purpose of trade."

"Despair?" The Carpathian looks at the woman's face, surprised, before nodding. "The health issue, of course. Don't worry, I'm not planning to die anytime this week, and certainly not until I've paid my bills. Do you trade much with foreigners? The few people I've spoken to so far give me the impression that Terre d'Ange has little use for people from other parts of the world, whether for trade or any other purpose. I should like to find myself mistaken."

<FS3> Jeanne rolls Politics: Good Success. (1 5 8 5 8)

Jeanne smiles. It is a warm expression that lights her features that look slightly foreign and d'Angeline at the same time — which, in Andrei's case may not come as much of a surprise. "I am relieved to hear that, monsieur. At least… the garments need to be paid for. And I fear, Monsieur Chevalier will insist on a third of the price being paid in advance." She moves to kneel then before him, in order to take measurement of his legs. "Oh Monsieur, of course Terre d'Ange has trade with other countries! It is not as it was, some centuries ago. Nowadays, trade and even political arrangements are made. Foreign nobility is marrying into d'Angeline noble Houses. Didn't you know, that the Queen of Terre d'Ange, Her Majesty Pénelope de la Courcel, is Hellene by birth?"

"I must admit that I did not know that," Anghelescu says, returning a smile of his own and positioning himself to make the woman's task as easy as possible; he may not carry a visible blade but there is definitely a dagger stashed in one of those tall boots. "My mother was d'Angeline but she never spoke much of her homeland. It was from her I learned your language, of course — though I fear I have yet to manage to lose the accent." He seems quite unphased by the idea of paying in advance; apparently tailors in the Chowat like making certain they get at least the value of the fabric they're using back too. "I thought that d'Angeline gentry married out of the country, but not the other way, actually."

<FS3> Jeanne rolls Perception: Good Success. (2 4 7 6 4 6 4 8 4 8 4 1)

"I believe, it is a bit of both. D'Angeline nobility marrying out, and foreigners marrying in," Jeanne clarifies softly. "There are some in this country that don't approve of such tendencies, monsieur." Her hand brushes along the side of his leg, and a handle, concealed by the trousers could have been felt in that fleeting touch. "Monsieur Chevalier will make the calculations of the price, and if this first business with you goes well, he might charge you the price of the next commission without any payment in advance."

"Monsieur Chevalier is wise to protect his investment and payment in advance is by no means unreasonable." Anghelescu quirks an eyebrow at the seamstress' observations, and says softly, "And who might such some be? Should I perhaps be more careful, mademoiselle? One may acquire attire befit a local man, but concealing an accent is harder."

Jeanne looks up, and there is a flicker in her dark eyes. "I didn't mean to frighten you, monsieur. But I know there are those that would not like to engage in conversation with someone with as obvious foreign traits in their appearance, such as mine own. Foreigners have been accepted into the royal family. So the general tendency is for most d'Angelines to embrace foreigners and get to know more about them and their foreign ways. Expect some reluctance in some of the greater noble houses. But if you are a mere merchant…" A faint smirk plays at the corners of her lips. "There should be nothing to fear. As I said, trade is one of the driving forces in Marsilikos. And there is much trade had with people from abroad."

<FS3> Andrei rolls Psychology: Success. (4 5 1 4 3 6 7 5)

Blue eyes glitter with amusement; she's not buying it — she wasn't buying it from the moment she got a feel of the fabric of the Carpathian's clothes, and they both know it. "And if I should some day decide to be something else — I should have to be more careful? I am not d'Angeline nobility, mademoiselle, and I do not wish to insult those who are by implying otherwise. The best way to come to understand a foreign people is to meet them where they are — not in the polished halls of the gentry but where they work, play, and live."

Her gaze turns a bit thoughtful and she shakes her head. "No. I suppose not. Last year, there was a great exhibition here in Marsilikos. Foreigners came from far away to present their goods and culture. There was an incident though… A woman presumed to be Skaldi got into a sword fight with a d'Angeline lady, and dealt her a severe injury. The Skaldi woman was arrested and there was a trial held at the ducal palace. Eventually, Her Grace ruled that the woman was to be banished. But there were some who demanded the death sentence for the accused woman." Even as she finishes up with the measurements, Jeanne shakes her head. "It caused quite the stir. D'Angelines, especially those from Camlach, have no love for the Skaldi. In the case of the woman, it was found that she was from Gotland, but couldn't remember. She had lost her memory."

"My people bear the Skaldi no love either," Anghelescu replies quite openly. "We share a border, and were it not for tall mountains, impenetrable woods, and a fair bit of skirmishing, I suspect I should be speaking another language and spelling my name differently. I suppose the close proximity does explain why people keep assuming that I too am Skaldi, though I'll admit that I find it a tad offensive. What became of the woman? Did she go home to Gotland in the end?"

He thinks for a moment of the lady Philomene — Camlach is her province, isn't it? She certainly walks like somebody stabbed her quite severely, but perhaps not quite so recently. Ah, these odd d'Angeline names, they all sound alike.

"She was put onto a ship bound for Caerdicca Unitas," Jeanne replies. "As far as I heard, she was never seen again. Now… I believe I am done. Riding vest and riding breeches, Monsieur? Maybe I have something over here that might fit you perfectly." At which the young seamstress walks over to a chest in the corner. "What about this one here? You may try it on if you like, while I go through your measurements and the colors you mentioned with Monsieur Chevalier?"

"That sounds quite good, indeed." The foreigner wanders in the indicated direction where he seems to quite quickly decide that when it comes to riding breeches, he is more in favour of cream or a pale shade of tan than pristine white; a choice that probably identifies him as a military man, since keeping white riding breeches actually white would be a task requiring almost endless work for some unfortunate servant or batman. He holds the breeches up in front of himself and seems to decide that indeed, they'll serve his purpose; a good thing, for a man, to be of fairly regular build and not require too many adjustments. "Do you think such an exhibition might become a regular affair?"

Some men make small-talk when they see a pretty girl. Other men half-heartedly pretend to make small-talk while they attempt to learn what they can about the city around them, whole-heartedly taking advantage of meeting a woman whose observational skills are top notch.

"I am not sure. It was quite the success, apart from that incident. Perhaps?" Jeanne does not mind small-talk, and it serves its purpose of keeping her from wandering off to the front of the shop. "I haven't heard any announcement of this, though. On the other hand, we have foreign ambassadors and emissaries visiting quite often." Again, her dark gaze looks from the pair of breeches in Andrei's hand to his stature, and she nods. "These should fit you, monsieur."

"I think they will do nicely, perhaps with a dark jacket to match. Wouldn't want to look like some young noble out to impress the ladies, give the wrong impression and all." Anghelescu keeps a perfectly straight face in saying so, although one might of course argue that at thirty years, not everyone would consider him 'young' any longer, anyhow. "I am tempted to ask where these emissaries and ambassadors congregate, although I suspect that you will tell me the ducal palace."

"I think we may have a dark jacket to make you look… umm… like a seasoned…" She pauses, unsure for a moment on how to proceed, "…nobleman in riding clothes… in fact, let me check." Jeanne steps away to rummage in yet another chest. His other question about emissaries and ambassadors is met with a light shrug of her shoulders. "That. Yes. Most probably. Her Grace is very hospitable and provides official visitors from other countries quarters at the guest tower of the palace."

"Where they can be kept safely out of touch with the rest of the city, get in no one's way, and be summoned when one actually has a need for a foreign dignitary for whatever reason? I think I may settle for appearing a seasoned member of the higher middle class, mademoiselle. I do very poorly with being caged, however gilt the bars — no offence intended to your duchess whose hospitality is legendary, I'm sure." Anghelescu holds on to the breeches while Jeanne goes chest-diving. "Why don't you tell me instead where people such as yourself go when they wish to spend an evening on town? I think I might feel more at home there.

"Guests of Her Grace are free to roam the city, as far as I heard," Jeanne tells him. "Higher middle class, then." The latter offered with a smirk, Andrei mayby can catch by her tone. The seamstress goes for a somewhat organized dive, taking some orderly folded garments out of the chest to get to what she is looking for, somewhere on the depths of the chest. "You mean… places where commoners go? There's the inn at the market place. And other places at the port. The Kraken's Den, which is a tavern where sailors go." There, a relieved sigh can be heard, as Jeanne straightens and holds out a jacket, unfolding it with an elegant flick of her wrists while holding it up, between herself and Andrei. "This one should fit, shouldn't it? Maybe… maybe I need to take it in a little. Would you try this on, Monsieur Anghelescu?"

Anghelescu takes the jacket from her hands and slips into it, proving once again that he is a bit too slender for his height; apart from that little detail, though, it is a good fit. "The Kraken's Den — I rather liked that tavern, yes. I ventured in there my first night in the city and found myself drinking with a remarkably sharp-tongued lady in mourning who apparently goes there with the specific purpose of punching sailors in the face — and quite expects them to return the favour." He sounds more amused than shocked; maybe this is normal for the Chowat (the punching, not the sailors — there probably are not a lot of sailors in a country completely landlocked by mountains).

"Tavern brawls have occurred there in the past, most definitely," Jeanne confirms with a smile. "But… are you certain you would expose yourself to the risk…?" Her gaze sweeps over his stature and then adds, "I doubt you are the kind that is eager for exchanging punches with sailors. Monsieur." She stands there, crossing her arms before herself, as she takes in how the jacket fits, tilting her head as she considers. "It… fits. Monsieur. If the riding breeches fit as well, you can walk out of l'Aiguille with one set of clothes, leaving only the fine merchant garb for us to work on. I'd say, two days. One, if Monsieur Chevalier is at leisure and bored."

"It would admittedly not be my first fight, but in fairness, my health was better when I served as a military man. Perhaps I might convince them to let me referee the brawl instead, buy a round for the winning team. Still, preferable to courtly dances and the formalities of politics." The foreigner smiles slightly, and evaluates the breeches with a critical eye before saying, "I think they will be quite right, in truth."

Her gaze lands on the breeches, and Jeanne considers them for another moment. "They will fit," she assures him again. "And if not… you can return, and I can make them fit, Monsieur." She chuckles and shakes her head. "As for brawls… I doubt there is usually much time for negotiations. On the other hand, Monsieur, you have a way with words. And where words fail, coin might help."

"I do, do I? I assure you that I can dive under a table when bottles go flying, too." Anghelescu chuckles. "Just need to lose the accent, I suspect. But speaking of coins, indeed — shall we settle the down payment? Or do I speak with Monsieur Chevalier about this?"

"We shall settle that quickly, with Monsieur Chevalier. I am after all just his assistant. A seamstress. He is the tailor in charge, so…" Even if she doesn't comment on his other remark about diving under tables, Andrei can see some mirth in the look she gives him. "You should come along to the front, and I am certain that we can quickly come to an agreement."

"I rather imagine that we shall," says the Carpathian with a smile, shrugging back into the jacket he wore when arriving, as well as his fox fur-trimmed coat and following the woman out to meet her employer and indeed, negotiate prices with him. "It's certainly been a pleasure — not merely doing business but also our chat. I've certainly learned a few things about Marsilikos from it."

"The pleasure has been all mine," Jeanne counters smoothly, with an amiable smile to go along with the words. "Perhaps there can be more chats in the future, Monsieur. As you will have to return at least once to collect your commission."

"And indeed, I may have to return for a white tailcoat," Anghelescu says with amusement, hinting of the Winter's Ball — which he may not be able to escape after all if he is indeed the foreign dignitary he's trying very hard to pretend not to be. "I shall look forward to it, mademoiselle. You have been most kind."

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