As always, anything you recognise isn't mine.
This is just a shortie, with only a couple more chapters after this. I was writing the plot for a longer fic and this came to me. Actually, the title came to me and then I had to come up with a story to go with it. Well, it helped pass an otherwise dull afternoon at work :)
Clutching her bag nervously, Isganna quickened her pace. The darkness of the winter evening on the City street closed in around her. Each step sounded unnaturally loud, a beacon drawing all the terrifying things lurking in the night toward her.
She would rather have been at home, safe in the light of her fire, with a book in one hand and a hot drink in the other. Isganna could afford some luxuries like books. She was a dressmaker for some of the richest ladies in the City and her services were not cheap. It was her trade that called her out into the night to her fourth fitting of the day. Her clientele chose her loyally every time they wanted something new. She did everything she could to accommodate them and maintain her reputation as the best.
A torch sputtered and died ahead of her and she shivered. The City was full of strange occurrences like that. She wondered what her clients would say if they could see her jumping at nothing. She tried to rearrange her calm and confident mask. Certain things were expected of a dressmaker, just like a lady. One had to be sensible at all times. Isganna smiled to herself. One had to appear to be sensible. Appearances were very important to the noble elite of the City.
A movement caught her eye. She turned to see a tile clatter onto the pavement. Her heart pounding, she looked up sharply. Was that an innocent shadow on the rooftop, or a man? Deciding she didn't really want to know, Isganna moved off down the street, rubbery knees not working nearly fast enough.
Isganna disliked the dark. Ever since childhood nameless terrors had waited for her in the night, hiding in her cupboard and under her bed. Walking the streets, undeniably dangerous at the best of times, revived these fears. The feeling that there was something behind her gave her prickles on her neck. She turned quickly.
Nothing. Just the empty street. In a way, that was worse than seeing someone there.
She turned down Oak Avenue with a sigh of relief. Here in this affluent district the streets were well lit and patrolled by City Watch. She was not far from her destination now, with just two streets to go. Despite the reassurance she felt from their presence she did not spare the Watchmen a single glance. In this district she could not afford to let her mask slip.
She knocked on the door of Seventy Five Matchless Street. She greeted the butler who greeted her with a courteous nod and introduced herself. As he closed the door behind her she glanced back into the street. It was deserted.
The Lady Marette stood on a box while Isganna took the measurements she needed. The Lady had two friends staying with her and they sat in on the fitting. The three aristocrats gossiped and joked and ignored Isganna. This was the way the dressmaker preferred it. She did not like to be drawn into conversation with anybody.
Most of the nobles she sewed for ignored her. Those of noble blood treated all those beneath them as merely furniture that moved. That is, those not considered eccentric (or worse, progressive) by their peers. Even if they had been minded to chatter, Isganna would be the first to admit she did not appear friendly or approachable. It was a trait she had worked hard at perfecting.
So she ignored much of what the nobles spoke of. The best way to be discreet with the secrets that were spilled in front of her was not to hear them at all.
She waited for a natural break in the conversation before saying quietly 'I am done, madam.'
The Lady dressed again and Isganna fastened her buttons without needing to be asked. She curtseyed low as the nobles swept out without glancing at her. Once the door was safely closed she stood. They seemed not to notice, but had she not curtseyed they would soon have reprimanded her.
The dressing room was littered with paper, pins and fabric samples, tossed where Lady Marette had discarded them. Isganna collected the small pile of approved fabrics and tied them with a piece of spare ribbon. She folded the others neatly and tucked them into her bag. Next she gathered the paper patterns pieces and folded them, ensuring each was clearly marked with its details in charcoal. While she tidied she thought about possible designs. Lady Marette's shape was still fresh in her mind and she began to think about which features should be hidden and which should be emphasised.
It was this skill that had allowed Isganna to quickly rise above the ranks of long established dressmakers to become one of the most sought after in the City. Her own dress advertised this skill. Tight sleeves displayed slender arms, while a corset with a pointed waist lengthened her torso. She caught sight of herself in the triple mirror, showing her front and back, and she paused to look.
Isganna was of average height. She had pretty features but they wore a permanent pinched and hard expression. She often bought cloth from a man called Perry, who always told her she had the eyes of 'someone who doesn't enjoy life enough'. Isganna was inclined to disagree with this harsh assessment. She was well aware of the expressionless front she wore. Wisps of hair had escaped from her tightly arranged bun and she tucked them back. The tight hairstyle further emphasised the austere cast to her face.
But it was slipping tonight. She looked tired. Dark shadows rimmed her eyes. The warmth of the room had flushed her cheeks and lips with blood. Isganna scowled at this unaccustomed colour and turned away.
There was a low chair in front of the fire with a table beside it. She gathered the last of her belongings and put them together on the table, intending to pack them later. She had a new pair of expensive steel scissors of which she was particularly proud. Her name was engraved in flowing script on the blades, a small vanity she had paid extra for on a whim. She placed them carefully on the top of the pile, and taking a pile of papers onto her lap, set about putting her ideas down.
An hour later she was still working on possible designs. She had seven sketches when she put down her charcoal stick and rubbed her eyes. She knew she was just delaying the inevitable trip home through the night now, and that the longer she left it the more chance there was that some criminal would accost her. She picked her bag up from the floor beside her and turned to the table to pack her things.
Her scissors were not there.
'They were right here,' she murmured. She stood and walked around the table to see if they had fallen to the floor.
A patch of darkness detached itself from the wall behind her and crept forward, arm raised. The firelight played on a blackjack in the shadow man's hand.