The little bell above the shop door jingled as Ilyari and Tazien pushed their way in, each lugging an oversized bundle of dark navy fabric cradled in their arms.

  Vaylen glanced up from his measuring board with one eyebrow already raised. “That better not be another bolt of scratchy uniform wool. I’m still nursing emotional trauma from the last one.”

  “Close,” Ilyari said, nudging the door shut behind her. “Academy uniforms. Delivered straight from Uniform Distribution.”

  Vaylen’s eyes sparked with interest. “Ah! So the circus begins.”

  Tazien heaved his bundle onto the nearest table with a dramatic sigh. “They’re massive. I’m pretty sure they thought we were giants.”

  “Or livestock,” Ilyari added. “They’re... generously sized.”

  Vaylen waved a hand. “You two are always exaggerating. Let’s see ‘em. Go on—try them on so I can see what we’re working with. I want to measure you while I’m still in a good mood.”

  The siblings exchanged a glance—Ilyari, skeptical and resigned; Tazien, clearly amused—and slipped behind the curtain into the back fitting room.

  There was a pause.

  Then came the muffled sounds of wrestling cloth, buttons being yanked, groans, and eventually—

  “Oh stars,” Ilyari hissed. “The pants have pleats.”

  “There are three layers to this shirt. Three.”

  “This fabric is scratchy. It feels like—like punishment.”

  “There’s a belt buckle with a mission statement etched into it,” Tazien muttered. “I think it’s a sermon in miniature.”

  “I look like a robed turnip.”

  “I look like a disgraced monk from a budget morality play.”

  Vaylen, still jotting down figures at his worktable, chuckled. “You haven’t even come out yet. Are you trying to scare me off tailoring forever?”

  The curtain parted.

  Vaylen turned—then blinked.

  Then blinked again.

  A beat of silence.

  And then—he howled.

  “Oh… oh no. Oh no no no.” He doubled over, laughing so hard he had to steady himself on a stool. “Who—who signed off on this?! I swear on my shears, if the Academy has a department for Uniform Atrocities, they’re winning awards.”

  Ilyari stood with her arms stiff at her sides, the sleeves completely swallowing her hands. Her hem dragged several inches behind her like she was preparing to sweep the floor with her dignity. Tazien’s pants had inflated like parade balloons at the thigh, only to taper comically to his ankles, and his collar stood so tall it nearly brushed his ears.

  “We told you,” Tazien deadpanned.

  “This is worse than I imagined,” Vaylen said between gasps. “I could fit a backup student inside those trousers.”

  “Can you fix them?” Ilyari asked dryly.

  “Not only can I fix them,” Vaylen said, straightening and wiping his eyes, “I’m going to show you a trick they don’t teach in Academy prep.”

  He snapped his fingers and pulled open a drawer full of trims, clasps, and bolts of interfacing. “You see, official uniforms have rules—cut, fabric, insignia. But no one says you can’t wear them well. The nobles won’t wear off-the-rack without flair. That’s where accessories come in.”

  He motioned for them to step forward, already tugging at the seams and pinning fabric. “We’ll trim down the robes, slim the sleeves, square the shoulders, and rework that belt buckle monstrosity into something that doesn’t look like a declaration of war.”

  As he worked, he began slicing cleanly through excess fabric and tossing scraps into a growing pile.

  “Now, this,” he said, holding up a square of deep navy, “will make a lovely wrist wrap with a glyph-stitch panel. And these trousers?” He pointed his shears at the pile. “We’ll use the cut-off to line a waistcoat. Vest sets you apart. Says you care.”

  “Is this legal?” Tazien asked, eyebrow raised.

  “It’s not illegal,” Vaylen said cheerfully. “Besides, the rich kids do it. Better to get glared at for dressing sharp than pitied for swimming in burlap.”

  Ilyari folded her arms. “So you’re telling us we can win fashion points and not trip down the steps?”

  “With a good tailor,” Vaylen said smugly, “you can win the room.”

  By the time he was done marking the adjustments, he had sketched out designs for matching vests, decorative cuffs, and a set of soft leather gloves stitched with faint threads from the leftover navy to match the robes exactly.

  “You’ll still look like proper inductees,” he promised. “But you’ll be the best-dressed ones in the entire Academy.”

  Tazien grinned. “Do we get capes?”

  “No,” Ilyari and Vaylen said in unison.

  He held up his hands. “It was worth a try.”

  Vaylen stepped back, arms crossed, studying them with a sharp eye. “Alright. Out of those monstrosities and back into clothes that don’t offend the spirit of thread itself. I’ll have these tailored in three days. And I’ll show you how to finish the rest.”

  Ilyari gave a short bow. “As always, Master Vaylen. You’re a miracle.”

  “No,” he muttered. “I’m just a man with taste. Now go. I need the shop quiet to cry over what the world calls ‘standard issue.’”

  Tazien snorted and ducked behind the curtain. Ilyari followed, already gathering the discarded pieces Vaylen had trimmed and tucking them into a basket.

  “Glad we could amuse you,” Ilyari muttered. “Can we borrow the tools?”

  Vaylen tilted his head, still grinning. “Alter them yourself?”

  “We don’t exactly have a noble’s stipend to hire a tailor,” she said, crossing her arms. “And we do know how to thread a needle.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Tazien added, “Sort of. We can figure it out.”

  Vaylen tapped the cloth once. “Tell you what—since you’ve been increasing my coin so much with new customers and you are ill equipped to handle the success. How about I start paying you? I can provide you with tools first, and then eventually, when you have all you need for home projects, we’ll switch to coin. However, you can’t open a shop to compete with me. I would probably go out of business.”

  Ilyari rolled her eyes at the thought. “We would never. I don’t like all those nobles here at the shop, let alone trying to get my attention at my house. That would be an awful thought.”

  “I dunno,” teased Tazien, “The way I sewed that mattress seam together I might be able to start a new mattress shop. “Tazien’s luxury sleep… stuff. I’ll work on the name later.”

  “You do realize I don’t make mattresses.” Vaylen said motioning around the shop at all the clothing. “That wouldn’t be competition at all. In fact I might support that venture as long as I get to invest 30% into it and get a 5% stipend of each sale in perpetuity. Also, I’d like to get the first luxury gooseleduck prim feather mattress with matching pillows, with the silk sheets. Thank you.”

  Tazien looked horrified. “You monster.”

  Vaylen laughed. “You have to be in business. Let me know when you are serious about it.”

  Tazien dramatically clutched his heart. “Never old man… never.”

  Vaylen pulled a small trunk from under the counter with a thunk.

  “Needles, enchanted thread spools, fabric chalk, fasteners, pins… scissors that bite if you use them wrong, so try not to bleed on anything expensive.”

  Tazien blinked. “They bite?”

  “Only a nibble,” Vaylen said cheerfully. “Just don’t disrespect the craft. Bring the rest of those uniforms but one tomorrow morning. Something tells me you’ll need at least one of those horrendous uniforms.”

  Tazien was still pretending to faint from Vaylen’s mattress demands when Ilyari leaned on the worktable and asked, more casually than she felt, “Vaylen… how long has Willowgrove House been empty?”

  The tailor paused mid-pin, a length of ribbon stretched between his fingers.

  He didn’t answer right away.

  Finally, he set the ribbon down and reached for his tea, swirling it with a thoughtful clink. “Longer than I’ve been here. And I came to this city when I was maybe… ten? Eleven?”

  Ilyari straightened. “So it’s always been like that?”

  Vaylen gave a slow nod. “Always overgrown. Always quiet. Some said it was cursed. Others said it was just a noble’s folly gone to ruin. Either way, no one went near it. People talked about strange lights in the windows, odd noises at night, mana that didn’t flow quite right.”

  “It’s not just rumors,” Ilyari said, voice low. “We’ve seen it.”

  Tazien nodded. “The garden’s… alive. But not like a greenhouse. It’s wild. Breathing.”

  “Breathing?” Vaylen echoed, brows lifting. “You sure it’s not just your overactive imaginations?”

  Ilyari’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve seen how we work. You know we’re not making this up.”

  He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think you are. And I don’t like that. Because I’ve lived in this city for decades, and I’ve never once heard of anyone surviving more than a few months in that house. Not because of ghosts or monsters—but because things just… go wrong. Locks that never quite latch. Doors that close on their own. Mirrors that show things they shouldn’t. That sort of nonsense.”

  Tazien sat back on the workbench. “But no one really knows who used to live there?”

  “No.” Vaylen’s voice was flat. “And I’d be real careful about trying to find out. Not every question deserves an answer.”

  Ilyari tilted her head. “You think we shouldn’t look into it?”

  “I think,” he said slowly, “that if a house like that was left empty for this long, and nobody tried to claim it—not even scavengers or noble squatters—it’s either because someone powerful wants it forgotten… or someone even more powerful did forget it, and remembering would be dangerous.”

  “But it’s ours,” Tazien said. “It was given to us.”

  Vaylen’s expression shifted. “By a system that thought you’d fail. That house was meant to be a quiet disgrace. A place to tuck you away and let the city forget. And now you’ve turned it into something people are looking at again.”

  He glanced between them, suddenly serious. “You dig too deep into old records—noble land grants, ownership transfers, magical deed trails—and you might flag yourself in ways you don’t want.”

  “Like what?” Ilyari asked.

  “Like drawing the Emperor’s attention. And not the ceremonial kind.”

  The room fell quiet. Even the enchanted scissors seemed to pause their soft snipping.

  Vaylen took another sip of tea and waved it off with forced lightness. “That’s not to say you shouldn’t be curious. Just don’t go parading around in the archives like you’re writing a book. Willowgrove’s got its secrets, and secrets are safest when they want to be found—not when you come kicking down the door.”

  Ilyari nodded slowly. “Noted.”

  Tazien exhaled. “So basically… if the walls start whispering our names, we shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “No,” Vaylen said. “But if the floorboards do? Move out.”

  They all laughed—uneven, a little tense—but still genuine.

  Vaylen rose and stretched, grabbing the uniforms to begin cutting and marking. “Alright, ghosts and garden mysteries aside—we’ve got tailoring to do.”

  “But if the house starts speaking in foreign languages,” Tazien said solemnly, “I’m charging it rent.”

  Vaylen didn’t miss a beat. “Make it do the dishes first.”

  ???????????

  Vaylen rolled his eyes as Ilyari looped the strap of the delivery satchel over her shoulder. “North District,” he said, handing her a folded invoice. “Tailor’s Guild courier house. Do not let them claim they didn’t order those trim samples. And take the long way back—give Tazien a break from your constant huffing.”

  “I do not huff,” Ilyari said, already halfway out the door.

  “Whatever name we’re calling it now!” Vaylen called after her. Then he turned to Tazien, who was sprawled across the counter with a sigh.

  “I’m dying,” Tazien moaned.

  “You’re matching fabric samples to walking shoes,” Vaylen said. “You’re not dying, you’re styling.”

  Tazien grunted and pushed himself upright. “What’s the story on these?”

  “A noblewoman wants a coat that matches her imported rain shoes,” Vaylen said, gesturing to a delicate pair of soft purple leather shoes with gold fastenings. “Find a fabric that won’t make her look like a lost lilac bush.”

  Tazien groaned but set to work, muttering under his breath as he began pulling down bolts of fabric from the shelf.

  The shop bell chimed. The door opened.

  Three noblewomen glided in like a storm front: veils, pearls, and perfume thick enough to stun a horse.

  “Vaylen, darling,” one drawled. “We’ve been simply soaked. Two rain hats, please—and I’m requesting a rush order on that rain veil I ordered last week. I believe that is a increase of two silver. Something resistant to scratching or tearing or even splashing. I’ve already buried one footman for that.”

  “And maid uniforms,” said the second, waving a delicate lace fan. “The new girl keeps splitting seams like she’s outrunning the law. Three sets, pale green. With silver trim.”

  The third leaned against the counter, tapping long nails. “And a waist sash. High quality. For someone about to steal another woman’s husband.”

  They cackled in unison. Tazien blinked and slowly stopped what he was doing, pretending to be very interested in the swatches while they chattered.

  “Oh, haven’t you heard?” the first said, lowering her voice just enough to make it clear she didn’t care if she was overheard. “Lady Talvane’s marriage is… unraveling.”

  “Unraveling?” the second woman snorted. “More like burning down. Everyone knows she was no proper noble. Just ‘declared’ out of the blue as a teen—and suddenly married to Lord Talvane before anyone could say scandal.”

  “Mmm,” the third hummed. “No lineage. No estate. No records. Came from across the sea, didn’t she?”

  “A spy,” whispered the second. “Or a very well-dressed con.”

  “Well, Lord Talvane seems to be over her ‘mysterious charm.’ You know he’s bedding the maid, don’t you?”

  “Oh, the one with the mousy brown curls and always pushing the tea tray?”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  “Shut up!”

  Tazien’s eyes widened a fraction, but he didn’t look up.

  The first woman laughed. “I told you that house would crumble. You can’t stitch lies into legacy.”

  Tazien’s hand hovered over a bolt of fabric, still and tense.

  Then Vaylen stepped in, clapping once. “Ladies, your orders will be ready in two days. Perhaps less if you stop trying to catch fire with every word.”

  The women tittered and allowed themselves to be herded toward the front counter. But one glanced back at Tazien, barely acknowledging him.

  “Careful, darling,” she said. “The Academy’s full of secrets. Best not to stitch yourself too tightly to anyone’s hem. Some girls are always looking for a Prince, even if he has no kingdom.”

  And just like that—they swept out, laughter trailing like perfume.

  Tazien let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  Vaylen set a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome to noble politics. Where gossip can crown or crucify you in one sentence. Or both.”

  Tazien nodded slowly. “I guess we need to watch our steps.”

  “Oh,” Vaylen said. “You’ve only just started dancing. Learn the rules of engagement, but be careful not to step on any toes.”

  tailored torment and backroom rumors!

  you think is going on with Lady Talvane? Spy? Social climber? Or something else entirely?