Gavin took a deep breath and held it. The air was dusty with lint, but he could not cough as the tailor drew a measuring tape across his chest. The bent man’s bald head had asymmetrical hair combed across it in inky black tendrils. The sound of sewing machines was not well-muffled by the rows and rows of hung cloth. They thrummed. Gavin released his breath when the tailor lowered the tape, finger and thumb carefully marking the measure.
L’Marc said, “If you puff out like that, the resulting garment will hang loosely. Finnegan is polite, and would never think to mention it, but I made that mistake as a youth.” Gavin felt a wave of nausea.
The arrhythmic cacophony of the sewing machines was setting his teeth on edge. He clenched his jaw and he heard a squeak. He then tasted a sharp grain on his tongue. Gavin forced himself to breathe, inhale and exhale. The pain started slowly, sparking through his face. It raced from his ear to his throat.
My right upper middle molar. Now asymmetrical from the left.
His tongue swept over the jagged edge that had formed. Everything around him was distant to the imperfection that had formed in his most private self. He felt movement, and tried to open his eyes, but his tongue kept demanding attention. It kept coming back to him with reports of the crooked nature of his broken mouth.
Finnegan put his liver-spotted hands to his chest once more. He pulled the tape away and said, “Twenty-nine inches.” A seamstress at the side table marked it on a small pad of paper with a diminutive pencil. She placed the pencil back in her tight, frizzy brown bun.
The shard of broken tooth was still on his tongue, and he forced himself to swallow it. He refused to let these men of means and refinement see him spit.
“Turn around, sir. Now shoulders. Stand at ease,” Finnegan said.
Gavin turned, relieved to look through the display window. The mannequins stood regal in their gaudy embroidered waistcoats and shimmering cravats. People walked by, and Gavin imagined them looking with envy to see him towering on the dais in Finnegan’s Fabrics.
I am in my rightful place, taking my rightful suit in the capital. Kalden.
His shoulder twitched of its own accord as Finnegan pressed a gnarled knuckle against it. Gavin held himself firm. Chat chat chat chat chi cha chat chat. The sewing machine hitched and turned in Gavin’s ears. L’Marc says Finnegan is the best, Gavin reminded himself, I am sure they are sewing embroidery. Gavin focused on a single shining thread on the lapel a mannequin was wearing. Seams would never make that sound.
“King Ormand is a meticulous man. He will be taken with your exacting attention. Do not fail to examine his voice.” L’Marc spoke, and Gavin was unsure whether the words were directed at him or Finnegan.
“It is to be sure, my lord. My hands sewed the king’s diapers and he never fails to find fault, even now. Young Gavin, please speak freely while I measure you so I can see how your neck flexes.” Finnegan had an impudence to his tone. Gavin turned and looked down his nose at the man.
Gavin opened his mouth to speak and Finnegan’s decrepit hands flew for his neck. He twitched, escaping the noose, as well as the dais, and fell against a rack of wool cloaks.
Is my neck bleeding as well? Has Riley followed me all the way to Kalden?
He scrambled to his feet, scowling openly at Finnegan. The two men had their eyebrows raised in identical expressions of well-bred shock. Gavin set his jaw firmly and fought not to squeal from the pain emanating from his new flaw.
Finnegan gestured with the tape, “If sir would please step back on the platform, I would be much obliged to measure sir’s neck.”
“The duels were surely fierce at Ariland Castle. His warrior training is without restraint.” L’Marc’s tone was measured, complementary.
Gavin bristled, He would defend me to this tradesman?
Gavin straightened his jacket and stepped back on the platform. He raised his head with a stern set to his jaw. Once the tape was around his neck, Finnegan asked him to speak.
“L’Marc, I understand the importance of presentation. And yet, is our matter with the king not one of gravest importance?” Gavin spoke, feeling the tension on his neck reflected in his voice.
L’Marc smiled up at him, “King Ormand will provide us with but one audience. It must be pristine. I understand your father instilled in you focus, determination and a tactical mind. Those things must be tempered with a fawning servitude in the court. This lesson was most unsavory for me to swallow.”
The set of Finnegan’s mouth changed slightly. He flicked the tape over Gavin’s head. “Twelve inches, Deirdre.” The pencil erupted from the nest of hair and inscribed Gavin’s throat upon the page.
“How long is it going to take to finish these garments?” Gavin looked at L’Marc as he spoke.
Finnegan was the one to reply, “We are back-ordered and expedience is a matter of negotiation.”
“My dear sir, this is the son of the Duke of Ariland. By all means, you may add the obligation to my account.” L’Marc was now inspecting a black silk cloak identical to the one trailing behind him.
“If sir could spread his legs shoulder-width for an inseam measurement.” Finnegan stood, staring at Gavin’s shoes.
Gavin noticed a spot of mud on them. He was sure it was what Finnegan was looking at. He twisted his feet to the sides.
Finnegan bent at the waist and through the man’s shirt, Gavin saw a painful curvature to the man’s spine.
He has no room to judge me for spots on my shoes.
The twisted creature measured from the floor to Gavin’s groin. “Thirty-four inches, Deirdre.” He turned his head to L’Marc, “We can possibly have one suit ready within a week. What colors were we thinking?”
L’Marc nodded to Gavin and asked, “Which shades do you prefer?”
Gavin looked at L’Marc’s attire and replied, “Black. Only black.”
L’Marc pursed his lips.
Finnegan stood and turned to L’Marc, grinning. “Surely you approve of the young master’s choice?”
“I can hardly fault him for his tastes.” L’Marc plucked at his sleeve. “The way a man dresses is the way he presents himself to the world. The sight of a man dressed soberly is something to strip assumptions from the mind.”
Gavin smiled.
At least it’s a molar and not visible.