Work Text:
The undercoat has stiffened overnight, the selvage curling up unevenly in a way he hadn't accounted for, and now, regardless of how cleverly Cinna's fingers rearrange the overskirt, the front panel won't lie flat.
It isn't a crisis yet, because no one's noticed--the women who come to Stipha's shop wouldn't hold their tongues to save the feelings of a seamster or even Stipha herself, so it's clear it's a matter of notation, not polite ignorance--but he knows it's only a matter of time before someone notes it in the daily columns, and he's got too many ideas to let the kind of pettiness that can follow a bad review derail him.
He rearranges the display slightly, then puts an artfully casual finger to the corner of his lip and tilts his head. It's a move he's practiced in the mirror because being the youngest of Stipha's crew means looking cute is still serving him reasonably well, though that's a time-limited reality, and one he has to balance, and he knows that it looks for all the world as though he's simply had a striking new thought. He's sure to be convincing, because taking advantage of every last one of his assets is both smart and expected, but doing it in a way that draws attention or leaves anyone feeling foolish is a good way to wind up in a new indentured post basting together patterns for ragdolls at the warehouse.
As soon as he's looked sufficiently interested in his thought, he picks up the problem dress and takes it back into his workspace, then rips out the undercoat and slices it down the front. In a moment he's pressing flat strips of the stiff glossy material and pinning them onto wider triangles in order to recreate the look he'd intended. What he wanted with this fabric in the first place was the flash of bronze peeping through the slits in the opaque patterns of creamy yellow and bright sharp green, like a healthy fertile field that's been strip-mined and then covered (camouflaged) with lilies that sway in the breeze. He'll have to accomplish the flashes another way without compromising the line of the gown nor the fall of the fabric because if the slits don't gape as the wearer moves, the look (which, if anyone asks, is intended to convey the more positive richness of a feast, of whipped potatoes and bright sweet peas punctuated by gravies and crunchy fried skins) falls flat. And so would he, probably; again, this would bring a trip to warehouse anonymity, and while he's willing (happy) to fail for a cause, he can't do that without being on a stage in the first place. Well, and he hasn't found the right cause yet, the one that will allow him to make a real and notable difference with the art he's been honing for years now.
He hasn't been looking, exactly, but part of what drove him to choose to be a craftsman in the first place is the urge to escape the stifling expectations so prevalent in the capital, and if he couldn't quite articulate that at fifteen, still, he knows that eventually he'll find himself in the right place at the right time. It's why he's so guarded in the expression of his true thoughts, in order to choose his moment.
Pressing and pinning and humming under his breath takes up his thoughts for fifteen minutes, but another of the points of balance requisite in working for Stipha is that between independence and sycophancy, so he leaves the pinned bits just at the point at which he knows she will want him to seek her approval before proceeding, and returns to the public side of the show.
Four women are staging an impromptu auction, outbidding one another for the wide-framed dress Cinna built on the notion of desolate ruin; the dress is nine shades of ecru and gray overlaid and interlocked in an intricate nonrepeating pattern meant to convey a broken skyline fallen to dust. At least, that's what Cinna intended it to convey and what he hopes the rare unbiased viewer will see; he's sure there's a much less interesting way of interpreting this one, too. In any case, he has no idea what the four women see, but because the look is by Stipha (everything Cinna makes is by Stipha, unless of course he makes something dreadful or unfashionable, in which case the blame will be his entirely), each of the four believes herself the best candidate to emerge triumphant.
All of them are completely wrong. It isn't right--in color, in shape, in fabric--for any of them; however, Cinna is well-practiced at not laughing at the incongruities of what people see, understand, and want. Laughter that isn't shared is universally considered rude unless one has a certain social standing, and he's very sure there would be no sharing.
The short blonde (her hair is currently a coral-pink shade more suited to a floral arrangement than to her skin tone; that doesn't change the reality of her natural color, nor the fact that either way, she'll look awful in the dress) wins, and Cinna finds himself considering adding a frame around the shoulders before delivery to put forth the impression of a window-box for that flower hair.
It's just as well he has a habit of keeping his thoughts to himself, of putting all his opinions into the visual realm and letting people hear them only if they are prepared.
Stipha turns and beckons, introducing him to the blonde (her eyes go all predatory, as though she feels certain his services might be negotiable and that her interest will be gratefully and eagerly accepted) and directing him to take her for a fitting. Her eyes make another slow trip down and back up his body as Stipha hands him the dress to alter, and she smirks.
Perhaps his original thought isn't a bad one. He can do it, between the turning of seams and the measuring of lines; it will be no more difficult than swapping out a handful of slender gray lines for ones in a new shade, a slightly warmer ecru. Would be; 'will' indicates he's already made his decision, and he's aware that he needs to be attentive to messages he sends and refrain from engaging in pettiness.
She follows him for a moment, then moves ahead, as though she knows exactly where she's going. He stifles a sigh and speeds his steps to catch up and steer her the right way; for all she's in the top tier socially, she's not one of Stipha's regulars and her assumption isn't right. She gropes him as he directs her, and whispers a lewd suggestion that isn't a suggestion at all; she thinks herself irresistible and knows she can make things difficult for him.
Window-box it is. It is childish, but she won't notice and neither will her friends.
It will have to be subtle, nothing loud, nothing that would make a passer-by exclaim. He allows his eyes to follow the line he wants to replace, the line he will replace as he molds the outfit to her. Perhaps it can even be accomplished with dye, hand-painted and fast-acting so there's no treading upon her patience. It won't be hard to explain: he's adjusting the palette to more perfectly suit her. That's even true, though 'more perfect' only means 'less awful' in this context.
Perhaps the image being conveyed, to those few who will see it, is a worthier one anyway. Rather than desolation it will be unexpected life, remaining and thriving in a ruined landscape. Life out of death, growth out of decay, that sort of thing. It's at least an image more hopeful than some he has drawn.
Of course, it will only work until she changes her hair and maybe her skin; perhaps then the outfit will come across as a window-box filled with decaying apples, or maybe desiccated lavender.
Still, she will most likely only wear the dress once, and soon. He's familiar with the patterns of society, and despite that she's offering--with her body and her voice--all sorts of carnal pleasures he doesn't want, he knows that in a week she'll have moved on to another designer and forgotten him entirely, so the effect will probably be what he intends.
He opens a drawer and rummages, then smiles at her brightly, and holds up a pot of the ink. "But first," he says, allowing her to correctly assume he's going to take her up on her 'offer,' "let me make a quick adjustment, to take advantage of your coloring. It won't take a moment."