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"Uh ... yes, why don't we just check the fit."
The woman at the counter nods, and after handing over the dresses, she directs you to one of the changing rooms. Blessedly, she does not follow you in, and once you are satisfied that you are alone in here, you undress yourself ... and in the process realize just how battered you are at the moment. Just the amount of bruises and cuts that are all over your body could be suspicious - and that is to say nothing of the track marks left from the Socketing Needle in your arm. Before you can get distracted any further, you pull the needle out of the crook of your left arm, smarting and wincing away for all three of the painful, miserable inches. When the tip finally clears your arm, you actually shudder in relief.Thinking quickly, you dig through your apron and fetch one of your stilettoes, then you unwind some of your right footwrap, then you cut it into crude bandages. You don't have the time - or even the desire - to wrap up all of your hurts, but having those tracks covered up makes you feel marginally better about all of this.
Of course, if you were stopped, investigated and inspected by the Inquisition, they wouldn't hesitate to look under a set of bandages ... and perhaps, by wrapping the tracks, but leaving all of your other injuries bare, you are drawing more attention to your left arm. For a moment, you consider wrapping the rest of them, or taking the bandage off of your arm - but ultimately, you decide against it. If the Inquisition is inspecting you, then they are also going to be checking you over with a Spot-Dosimeter - which you are presumably Strange enough to set off. Not a pleasant notion, but truly, there is nothing that you can do about it now. Out of the black, you find yourself thinking of the Master Abbot, how well he could read you. How from the moment you presented yourself to him with Ossavian's note to the harrowing experience of cutting 'deals' with him in his personal coach you were the breadths of a hair away from an agonizing death. It is also something that you don't want to dwell on .. but with the Inquisition afield after the disaster at the Oiler's Wharf you have to accept the possibility of another close encounter with an Inquisitor or a Cleanser.
Closer than simply being on the same street as them, that is.
Idly, you wonder if the Master Abbot would recognize you in one of these dresses. Probably.
Would Ossavian? Doubtful, he thought you were a man. You poorly stifle a sigh. Goes to show how bright you are, not only mooning after someone who has devoted their lives to hunting Witchlets like you down, but someone who cannot even tell that your a woman.
