Visit to the Tailor

Hours later, the carriage came to a gentle stop in front of a well-regarded tailor's shop nestled in one of the capital's bustling streets.

Delphia stepped out, adjusting the simple dark cloak she wore to cover her hair and body—an attempt to avoid too much attention. The day was crisp, with a faint chill in the air as the winter season was fast approaching, but the streets were busy, filled with Nobles and Merchants alike as they went about their business. By her side, her personal maid, Avys, followed quietly, her hands neatly holding the dress to be altered in front of herself.

Delphia hadn't made an appointment—there had been no need. The old Delphia had frequented this particular tailor so often that she was likely one of their most distinguished clients. As rude as the thought was, she expected they would find a way to accommodate her, no matter how busy they were.

As she entered the shop, the bell above the door chimed softly, drawing the attention of the busy staff. A warm fire crackled in the hearth beneath a marble mantel, above which hung a discreet oil painting of the shop's founder—a stiff-jawed man whose eyes seemed to follow her as she crossed the plush carpet. The walls were paneled in lacquered cedar and trimmed with bronze filigree, their dark sheen lending a quiet opulence that only the oldest money could afford to take for granted.

The tailor's shop was bustling with activity—Noblewomen clustered around, choosing fabrics and standing on platforms as assistants adjusted their gowns. The murmur of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the rustling of silk and the snip of scissors.

The scent of pressed linen and spiced wood polish lingered in the air as Delphia stepped into Maison Bramley, the tailor's private showroom tucked discreetly behind carved ivory-paneled doors. The space was bathed in the soft, golden light of overhead sconces, each one shaped like a blooming magnolia. Velvet-lined display cases showcased silk cravats, embroidered gloves, and glass-buttoned waistcoats—each one an indulgence whispered about in drawing rooms.

Delphia's presence did not go unnoticed. Heads turned as she stepped inside, the quiet hum of conversation faltering for just a moment as the shop's patrons took in the sight of her. The Vosswell heiress, returned to public eye after a period of silence, dressed simply but exuding an undeniable air of authority.

The tailor, a thin man named Count Bramley, was already making his way toward her, his face a mixture of surprise and concern. He gave a quick, respectful bow. "Lady Vosswell," he greeted her, his voice filled with the professionalism that high society demanded. "We were not expecting you today."

"Apologies, I didn't make an appointment." Delphia said calmly, removing the hood from her head, gesturing to Avys to hand the dress bag over to him. "But I need some adjustments made to this dress."

The dress was one of the more extravagant pieces from Delphia's wardrobe, though it had remained unworn for some time. Emerald green with intricate gold embroidery, it had once been tailored to highlight every aspect of her body's natural curves. The original Delphia had likely chosen it for its dramatic effect, a gown meant to command attention—especially from the Crown Prince.

But the new Delphia had no desire to wear it as is. It was no doubt a gorgeous piece but the dress needed altering, its boldness muted into something more graceful; Elegant. She had no intention of playing into the theatrics that had once defined her predecessor. She wanted the gown to whisper prestige rather than scream seduction—enough to remind the court of House Vosswell's enduring legacy, but not so bold as to invite the same whispers that had once clung to her name.

Count Bramley took the gown carefully from Avys, his brow furrowing as he glanced between her and the busy shop. "Of course, my Lady. We can begin immediately."

Delphia noticed the hesitation and she spoke as her eyes glanced around the room, "If you have no one free right now, I can wait. I have the time." Count Bramley was slightly shocked by her words. Thee Delphia Vosswell "can wait." That doesn't seem right, he thought, eyes scanning for anyone that could dress her. He spotted a younger assistant who had just started recently and called her attention. She jumped right away and quickly made her way to his side. "Yes, Count Bramley?"

"Help Lady Vosswell change into the dress she needs altered. I'll find someone else to assist you." Handing the dress bag to this girl, he smiled at Delphia before excusing himself. "This way, please, Lady Vosswell." The assistant gestured and led the way for her nervously.

As Avys followed quietly behind her, Delphia allowed herself to be led to one of the fitting platforms at the far side of the shop. The assistant, and Avys, started to help her change into the dress behind a privacy screen. Within moments another older lady came and assisted her so the gown was on in no time.

As she stepped out onto the raised platform, she caught sight of herself in the tall mirrors lining the wall. The gown clung to her form, the gold embroidery drawing attention to her waist and décolletage. It was regal, striking—but too bold for the impression Delphia wished to leave now. She needed something that exuded confidence without overshadowing the subtle power she planned to wield at the Faremont celebration.

"Let out the skirt," Delphia said, turning slightly to study the side view. "It's too tight as it is, and the embroidery along the waist—soften it. Make the lines less sharp, if you can, by adding some designs."

Count Bramley, who stood to the side with a notepad in hand, nodded quickly. "Of course, my Lady. We can adjust the embroidery to be more delicate, and I'll ensure the fit is elegant, but not overt."

As the assistants began pinning the fabric and making adjustments in chalk, the door to the shop chimed again, signaling new arrivals. Delphia's gaze flickered to the mirror, watching as three young Noblewomen entered, their voices bubbling with conversation and laughter—until they saw her.

The sudden hush in their voices was unmistakable. "Oh no... It's her," one of them muttered under her breath, just loud enough to be heard.

The group exchanged tight glances, their cheerful facade visibly cracking. Delphia remained poised atop the fitting platform, her hands relaxed at her sides as the assistants continued their adjustments. She didn't need to look directly at them—her reflection did enough. Her calm presence alone unsettled them, a quiet storm in the room's atmosphere.

The tallest of the group stepped forward, her posture impeccable, her smile measured to the millimeter. "Lady Vosswell," she greeted, tone perfectly polished but strained beneath the surface. "How unexpected to see you here today."

"Is it?" Delphia said lightly, her voice just cool enough to blur the line between pleasantry and warning. "This shop hasn't changed, has it?"

There was a faint hitch in the woman's breath. "No, of course not. It's still the finest in the district." She glanced toward the tailor staff, then back at Delphia. "We were just here to check a hem, but it looks like we've come at the busiest hour."

Delphia didn't respond right away. She turned slightly on the platform, letting the assistants work the pins around her waist, making her posture seem effortless even as her gaze—through the mirror—remained fixed on the noblewomen.

"If you're in a hurry," she said smoothly, "I'm sure Count Bramley can prioritize you. He does have a way of accommodating those with… pressing needs."

A subtle twist of phrasing—a suggestion of status, of pecking order. One the brunette caught immediately.

"No, no," she replied a little too quickly. "We wouldn't want to impose."

"How considerate," Delphia murmured.

An awkward pause followed. The air in the shop seemed to have thickened, and the other two noblewomen fidgeted behind their leader.

"We heard you'll be attending the Faremont celebration," the brunette said, trying to regain footing. "It's set to be quite the affair—Lady Faremont's debut and all. Such a rare story… a girl of modest beginnings catching society's attention so swiftly."

Delphia turned her head just slightly, meeting the woman's eyes directly now instead of through the mirror. Her expression was serene. Unreadable. But her next words cut through the room with perfect precision. "Fairy tales have a way of making even the most transient spark look like a star."

A beat of silence followed—pregnant with meaning. The noblewoman's smile twitched at the corners.

"Quite," she said tightly.

"Still," Delphia continued, adjusting the fall of a pinned sleeve with a flick of her wrist, "I imagine it'll be a night to remember. Especially for those who enjoy watching dreams tested under chandeliers."

The second woman looked visibly confused at the statement, but the brunette understood the message all too clearly. The subtle reminder that Delphia's tongue was sharper than most swords—and that if a game was being played, Delphia had already placed her pieces.

"I'm sure it will be," the noblewoman replied with a hollow smile. "Well… we'll leave you to your fitting, Lady Vosswell."

Delphia inclined her head slightly. "How gracious of you."

They retreated quickly, as if something in the air had shifted. The quiet murmurs of their whispers resumed only once they were safely out of earshot.

Delphia didn't bother watching them leave. Her gaze returned to the mirror, and though her face remained composed, there was a new glint in her eyes—cool, sharp, calculating.

She had learned something in that moment. Power didn't need to be loud. It didn't need to posture or bark orders. Sometimes, it only needed stillness… and the knowledge that others would break themselves trying to fill your silence.

As they retreated, Delphia turned to face the mirror, her reflection once again cool and composed. Her eyes flicked across the mirror, looking at the faces of the assistants and her own handmaiden. Avys said nothing, but Delphia caught the faint lift of her brows—a silent approval, perhaps.

Inside though, she was quietly reflecting on what she had just witnessed. The unease, the fear in those girls' eyes... It was a glimpse of what the old Delphia had endured regularly. Perhaps that was the price of living as a Vosswell—never being allowed to show weakness, never being allowed to be anything but intimidating. The former Delphia had wielded that power recklessly, using it to tear others down, to build walls around herself. But the new Delphia? She would wield it differently.

As the final lines were drawn, and the needed-adjustments to the gown were completed, Delphia turned to the tailor. "Send word when it's finished. I know fixing the embroidery can be tricky in a short time." She instructed and Count Bramley nodded quickly, bowing deeply. Returning to where her clothes were, she changed back into what she was originally wearing with the help of the two assistants before returning to the main room to leave.

Avys stepped forward to retrieve Delphia's cloak, and as she wrapped it around her shoulders, Delphia felt a renewed sense of purpose. She would attend the Faremont celebration, but not as the woman they expected.

With one last glance at the noblewomen who were still whispering among themselves, Delphia stepped out of the shop, her chin held high.