Quoted By:
"I - listen, I ..."
You are fumbling with the words at the moment, but you are still sharp enough to remember that you need to get off of the street, so you do, in spite of what might have been intended as a polite, wordless protest from Marpessa. As you slip inside the door, you can see the girls and the doorman looking increasingly worried - and immediately, you tense up, tightening your hold on your bundle. You whirl around, expecting to see ... you are not sure what exactly, but some manner of threat. Instead, you see quite a few of the establishment's women present - all of whom are older and better dressed than then the ones that were sent out here to 'deal' with you. You are already beginning to wilt under their glares as they clutch swatches ... when you realize that they are waiting on a customer. On the opposite side of the room, sitting very primly on a fancy little seat set up next to a fancy little table with fancy little snacks is a girl who looks to be of an age with you, in a velvet dress that is a few shades darker than blood-red ... and no doubt worth as much as the bounty on your head. You make a noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak and try not to think of what you must look like right now - like some dewy wet, too-tall freak clutching a canvas bundle as rough and plain as she is - or worse, what she must think of you - that you are some dewy wet, too-tall freak clutching a canvas bundle as rough and plain as you are.
You turn back around as the other three dressmakers come through the door, looking much less happy than they were just moments ago. You expect them to either start in on you, or order the doorman to drag you out, but instead they all look to the girl, and seeing that she is looking their way, the three of them curtsy deeply. Shit! It never even occurred to you that you would be expected to do that - though the oversight is understandable when you consider how little of the past eight years you have spent wearing a dress, or how little of your entire life has been spent in anything even <span class="mu-i">approaching</span> polite society. Still though, with her wearing that much velvet, it should have occurred to you that she was probably a Citizen. Scrambling, you turn back around and do your best approximation of a curtsy ... which even under better circumstances would probably have been <span class="mu-i">merely</span> unsatisfactory, but what with so much of you smarting from all those little hurts you have come into and both your arms wrapped around your bundled apron, your curtsy effectively is just you widening your stance and then bowing. Too embarrassed to even see how she reacts to that, you turn around immediately ... only to realize that too must have been a mistake when one of the dressmakers takes her face in her hands, and the lilt of soft, feminine laughter assails your ears. Just as you are wondering if turning around once more and presuming to beg her pardon would be another misstep, she resumes her conversation.
