Page 56 of A Tower of Half-Truths

Thirty-Three

The midday traffic was lighter than Mavery had anticipated, and so she arrived in the Garden District with plenty of time to spare. She decided to take advantage of the sunny, cloudless weather and peruse the main plaza before heading to Tesseraunt’s Boutique.

Compared to the Night Market, the Onisday market was a dull affair.

Only a handful of merchants had posted up shop today, and they made few efforts to attract the scattered market-goers.

But there was no shortage of food merchants.

They offered everything from fruit pies and fried dough, to seasoned nuts and spit-roasted meats.

Mavery’s stomach growled at the pungent aroma of spices.

As she’d never been to a dressmaker’s before, she hadn’t a clue if her appointment would finish in time for a midday meal—or even afternoon tea.

Conventional wisdom would likely recommend against eating immediately before being fitted for a dress, but she wasn’t about to face Priscilla Tesseraunt on an empty stomach.

She tracked down the merchant who sold the flatbread she’d enjoyed at the Night Market, then sought an empty table to sit and enjoy her food.

“You are a woman with exotic taste!”

Mavery turned, then frowned as she recognized something else she’d encountered at the Night Market.

“I hope your taste in the exotic does not end with food,” the merchant said, gesturing grandly to the rugs draped over his stall. “May I interest you in one of the finest rugs from my homeland?”

The broad daylight revealed that, behind his kohl-lined eyes and colorful tunic, this man was no more Maroban than Mavery was—exactly as she’d suspected the first time she’d heard that terrible attempt at an accent.

To darken his complexion, he’d slathered bronze makeup over his face, but he’d neglected to do the same to his hands.

His true skin tone was pale and ashen, and he was missing two fingers on his right hand.

Not to mention, though he was a head shorter than Mavery, his build was too lanky for a Maroban.

There was something vaguely familiar about this man, but Mavery couldn’t pinpoint what, aside from him being an obvious conman.

“Not interested,” she said coolly.

He must have noticed her glancing at his hands, for he shoved them in his pockets.

His eyes lingered on her face—her nose, to be precise.

Up to this point, everyone Mavery had met in Leyport had been too polite to draw attention to her most visible scar.

She’d all but forgotten how uncomfortable it was to be stared at while a stranger pondered what could have marred her face.

She narrowed her eyes. In return, the man bowed his head politely, then cajoled an approaching couple.

Mavery found an empty bench a short distance away.

The first bite of curried lamb sent a wave of warmth rippling through her body from head to toe.

But that comfort dissipated as she realized she was being watched.

Sure enough, the rug merchant’s eyes kept darting in her direction.

If he truly was a conman, he could stand to learn a thing or two about discretion.

Either he was sizing her up as a potential mark, or his intentions were even less savory. She had no desire to find out. Suppressing a shudder, she binned what remained of her flatbread, then continued to Tesseraunt’s Boutique.

A bell chimed as she opened the door, but the hum of activity inside the shop quickly drowned it out.

While the right-hand wall was lined with racks of dresses, each one more elegant than the last, the bulk of the room was dedicated to alterations.

Seamstresses flitted across the shop floor with pins clenched between their teeth, arms laden with swaths of colorful fabric, tape measures draped over their shoulders and trailing behind them like capes.

Their customers were all young women in various states of dress.

Some wore puffy-sleeved ball gowns and were scrutinizing their reflections in the mirrors.

Others had been stripped down to their chemises to have their measurements taken.

With no men around, propriety hardly mattered.

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 on her heels was the woman who refused to continue watching from a distance.

“Please, Madam Fallstad, you must wait.” 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 be perfect.”

“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.”

“You have 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 before his mother.

“This is a slight improvement 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 you ever worn 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.”

“Yes, I suspected as much. Now, up with you!”

Stripped down to her brassière, drawers, and stockings, Mavery stepped onto the platform.

Priscilla wasted no time confronting her from all sides and angles with her tape measure.

She jotted down numbers in a small notebook while talking to herself—a habit she’d passed down to her son, though her mutterings were mostly in Dauphinian.

“Just a hair over seven-and-sixty inches,” Priscilla said after taking Mavery’s height. “And with your measurements…yes, one of our standard sizes should fit you with minimal alterations. That is good. Thanks to Aventus saving things to the last minute, I will not have much time.”

“Oh, you don’t need to go through all that trouble.”

Priscilla clicked her tongue. “No, the trouble will be my reputation if you leave my shop with a dress that is not a perfect fit. Stay there.”