Until Death Do Us... Nothing

[Jacob Swainswick]

(Whilst the conversation continued, Swainswick slid open a shallow drawer under the counter, and fetched from it - with long, nimble fingers that might have otherwise suited a surgeon - a small selection of the implements of his trade. Fetching Mr. Black's coat, he carefully scrutinised the inner watch-pocket, measuring the dimension of its opening against those of its contents. With a quick precision, he put in place two neat stiches; then removed and replaced the watch once, nodding in satisfaction at the result.)

[Dorian M. Black]

"There is..." Dorian's gaze goes distant for a moment. "A... lot. Unfortunately. I believe it's been forcibly pruned to six bridesmaids. I convinced them that the typical morning ceremony is unfashionable. I'm not entirely sure how successful I've been, but cutting out women from my family or contradicting their decision is like..."

A pause. "Imagine myself, if you will, as female, and loud and more stubborn. My mother is angry almost all the time and more vain than a peacock. You should be warned that you would be dealing with this when there."

"She wants the ushers to match in suit to her husband. You'd be recreating some old thing he wore on their wedding, or some such." Very dryly, Dorian adds: "I have notes."

[Valentina Audley]

"So, eight gowns, no nine and the ushers outfits. The gowns alone will take four months at a minimum. Add in the ushers outfits and we could be looking at over half a year and this is all depending on the design."

She tilts her head thoughtfully. "Do you have the notes with you?" She's looking at him but by this point it's clear her focus is mainly on the challenge in front of her.

[Dorian M. Black]

"You have approximately one year before that year's London Season, which the wedding has to be before. I cannot delay it past..." again that same internal midstare as Dorian pauses to think. "I imagine spring of eighteen and eighty three is the latest for the date. I've pushed it back from this winter as is, and the nights grow-" he glances at Swainswick. "-short thereafter. Beyond May the ceremony itself becomes problematic."

"The bride's gown will be a pain, or a good challenge," he muses, noting her expression. "Cousin Cissy wants cloth of silver for it, although satin for the bridesmaids with gold work embroidered on. There's a stash of sapphires somewhere mother will have on Cissy's gown, so the train glitters as the night sky." If possible, Dorian's monotone has reached new levels of deadpan. "You may need to be a month in Oxford for this reason when it comes to that dress or finalising the train. I'm not sure how realistic it will be getting the number of gems as they want on it down by carriage. Well, obviously it's possible, but the family get a little tense when jewels travel."

[Valentina Audley]

And with that she's lost. Dorian is briefly ignored utterly as Valentina locates her sketch book and pencil, leaning unceremoniously on the counter top her pencil scribbles the words 'like the night sky' and then races across the page.

"I assume the jewels will come off after the wedding? Are the bridesmaids to have jewels as well? The cloth of silver'll have to be ordered especially and with a deadline of a year that'll need to be done forthwith so the initial design needs to be agreed upon sharply. I suggest you commend these sketches to the care of the postal services as soon as I have finished them."

She grins, though she doesn't look up from the page. "Consider them a bid for the job if you like. If they don't suit we can consider the matter finished, but we lack the time to go through multiple revisions."

The pencil races over the page depicting an elegant robe a la francaise. The bodice, over skirt and train are clearly intended to be cloth of silver. The underskirt seems to fade from light to dark as it gets to the hem. Notes scribbled beside it read 'panels of gradient blue, to match bridesmaids'. Once she's happy with the dress she doodles a repeating pattern that bears a passing resemblance to fireworks, or perhaps the night sky and a note that reads 'one jewel per design centre'.

Flipping the page she starts work on what becomes a bridesmaids dress which is light coloured around the neckline but has darkened considerably by the time it's reached the hem. The firework design is drawn on the bodice and as a kind of border around the hem.

[Dorian M. Black]

Dorian keeps still, decodes the unwelcome feeling. Emotionally, something is sending violent signals all over the place. Beneath the confusion there is deep resistance. He follows the trail of Valentina's sketch.

Is this really what he wanted, once upon a time? He's glad he came out of that, and fought so viscously to avoid this earlier. Is there really even a series of moments reaching all the way back to the pre-literal days, to a time when he wanted something as... as frivolous and...

Dorian tears his gaze away, suddenly furious.

He supposed he had, once upon a time. Or wanted to want it. If the world's a lost cause you're at liberty to think of nothing but your own pleasure. Fortunately or unfortunately, Dorian came to the - very early and very upsetting conclusion, at least to his mother and father - that he cared quite considerably for things beyond. So much had changed since... Well. Everything. Besides, even when he cared for soirées and their stupid simplicity he also remembered feeling constantly tired, so there's no good in rose-tinting the mess that was polite society. He'd been constantly tired, not physically but emotionally, underlyingly, of everything.

Still... Doubt, sanctioned by Christ himself, was human. God had a soft spot for doubt.

Dorian's jaw locks as he lets the memories dissolve, brings himself to the question asked. Several times lately coming out of a reverie he's seen - or half-seen, or imagined, or glimpsed - the past of constant functions and glittering smiles whisking away a moment before he can get a perceptual grip. But if he's honest he must admit that while he's thought of what could have... been... had he not zealously pursued his idealism, he'd probably be equally unhappy.

That wasn't so shocking. What was upsetting was that the loss of his life came with a feeling of failure. Failure. Ha. Ha ha. Very funny.

. . .

Limit your time with the Toreadors.

He should take up sewer golf with George. Plait Haniel's hair. Do something, anything.

"They do not require removal," Dorian clears his thoughts. "She has plenty enough gowns for season without recycling the fabric." A small wince. "The women do not really... care for conservation. Those gems were put aside for the dress. Though if you'd rather be paid in precious metals or stones then I doubt it will matter."

"I can put you in contact with the supplier we use for winter fabrics, if you need. We maintain business with several companies which can meet the demand."

[Valentina Audley]

The pencil stills briefly. They never make their gowns over? What, not ever? What a god awful waste of fabric and money. Valentina is silently appalled at such extravagance. The only gown of her own she's not made over at least once, is her Court gown and professional pride dictates that. Still, the problem with being employed is you can rarely make demands of your employer. The pencil moves again and in short order the sketches are done and carefully torn out of the book.

"I have a supplier, thank-you, who gets me good rates, but it will still take time." She smiles wryly. "Cloth of silver is not so commonly asked for that merchants keep it in stock. As for payment, with an order this large I think I should prefer half in bankers notes and half in gold. Once the designs have been agreed upon I shall require a sum to start work. How much will depends on the final number of garments and the matter of their complexity."

She deftly rolls up the sketches and ties them with a ribbon, before handing them to him. "When should I expect to hear the answer?"

[Dorian M. Black]

"Within a fortnight," Dorian murmurs, taking the ribbon-wrapped parchment. "Do you have means of receiving telegrams?"

[Valentina Audley]

Valentina wondered idly if something had been done recently to all the neonates to make them patently stupid. Or perhaps it was just the nosferatu, forgetting that others didn't habitually skulk in the shadows.

"This is a shop darling. We receive telegrams in the usual method, which is to say we employ an errand boy to collect them and bring them to us when needed."

She smiles thinly at him.

[Dorian M. Black]

Dorian gives a low hum, as if considering the weather.

"A shop for the longest time open only at the most irregular of hours. I would say it best not to assume anything of The Silver Thimble."

He doesn't return the smile. However, one sardonic eyebrow does lift slowly.

"I will see that you receive a telegram. Until after which, Miss Audley." A dip of head. "Mr. Swainswick, it was a pleasure. Would that tack be in?"