Erika arrived at the workshop just as the city's morning bustle reached its peak. The coachman helped her with the parcels—bundles of fine cloth, threads, and some delicate fasteners Jean had requested. She carried them inside, pausing at the doorway.
The scene that greeted her made her blink in disbelief. Jean's workspace was chaos incarnate. Bolts of cloth strewn across the floor, sketches pinned haphazardly to the walls, half-finished garments hanging from chairs, and a faint scent of ink, dye, and thread hovering in the air.
"Jean…" she breathed, half in awe, half in exasperation.
"Is this… are you… still working?"
He looked up from a tangle of floral-patterned fabric draped across the table, eyes dark with fatigue and excitement alike.
"Working? Erika, this is barely surviving," he said, voice rough. "I haven't had a wink of sleep. Not one. I thought making women's clothing—especially pants—would be easy. Ha! It's a nightmare."
Erika tilted her head, frowning. "A nightmare?"
Jean gestured broadly at the mess.
"I started with male designs as reference. Tried to make it elegant for women, but it ends up… grotesque. Too stiff, too flashy, too anything! I tried adding floral motifs here, subtle embroidery there… It looks ridiculous. I never imagined making clothing for women with elegance and movement would be this hard."
Erika stifled a laugh, stepping closer. "Well, you certainly care about the craft."
He managed a weak smile. "Care? Erika, if I don't, this lady might as well slice my hands off before the first fitting."
She softened, noticing the gauntness in his cheeks, the dark rings under his eyes.
"You've barely eaten either. Want me to run to the market? I can get something for both of us."
His eyes lit up. "Yes. Please."
"Consider it done," Erika said cheerfully, already turning to leave, the bundles of fabric balanced carefully in her arms.
The lower city bustled with energy. Vendors shouted their wares—fresh fish, ripe vegetables, sizzling skewers of meat. Children darted between stalls, laughter mingling with the smell of baking bread and salt from the docks. Erika moved swiftly, her orders clutched in her hands as she navigated the narrow streets.
She stopped at an old shop, where a kind-faced man was polishing the wooden counter.
"Well, Erika… nice to see you stopping by. What'll it be this time, sweetie?" He smiled warmly, as if she were a regular he had known all her life.
Erika returned the smile, handing him her list. "Just these will do perfectly for what I'm making. Thank you!"
While he busied himself collecting the items, Erika noticed two men passing behind her, murmuring in low tones.
"Woah… can't believe they let someone like her in this part of the city."
"Relentless northerners, aren't they?"
Erika's lips pressed together. Northern features—dark hair, piercing blue eyes—often marked her as different in the capital, and she felt the familiar irritation rise. She forced herself to dismiss it.
Idle chatter of cowards, she thought.
Soon the old man returned, handing over the requested items with a friendly nod. Erika thanked him and stepped outside, pausing to arrange her bundles.
A shadow suddenly fell across her. She turned to see a woman towering beside her, dressed in a flowing black robe. Brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, catching the morning light. Her green eyes scanned the fresh fruits at the stall before landing on Erika.
"A Northerner?" the woman said, voice tinged with surprise.
Erika's eyes narrowed.
Really? You can't go a single day without staring at northern features? she thought, irritation bubbling.
"Quite rude to say that to someone who had no choice but to take refuge in this kingdom," Erika replied coolly, her voice firm but controlled.
The woman blinked, flustered, hands rising in mild protest.
"Oh… please… I didn't mean—"
Before the conversation could escalate, the old man returned, bustling past to hand Erika the last of her items. She gave the woman a quick nod.
"Enjoy your shopping, madam. May the day be kinder to you than your words." With that, Erika turned on her heel and walked away.
As Erika weaved through the market again, a man ran past, glancing anxiously at the robed woman.
Perhaps they're married.
Erika's gaze lingered on the woman, noting how strikingly tall she was—she had never seen anyone quite like her. A small smirk tugged at Erika's lips.
Well, I'm glad she found herself a husband almost as tall as she is…That loves her, I suppose. Love really is blind, she thought, amused.
she turned back to the market bustle, her mind already shifting to Jean and the lunch she promised to bring.
The workshop smelled nothing like fabric or dye for once—it smelled of sizzling onions and garlic. Erika had rolled up her sleeves, commandeered the little stove shoved in the corner, and was humming as she stirred a pot. The golden broth bubbled with chicken, carrots, and herbs, steam curling through the air like ribbons.
Jean peeked over from his worktable, nose twitching.
"You're not just saving me from starvation—you're saving my soul. What is that heavenly aroma?"
"Chicken soup," Erika replied, giving the pot a stir.
"Something to stop you from shriveling up like one of your silk samples left in the sun."
Jean clutched his chest with mock pain.
"My silks are far more resilient than me, thank you very much. But damn, it smells divine."
Minutes later, they sat across from each other, bowls steaming between them. Erika ladled generous portions, sliding one bowl toward him.
"Eat. And don't you dare cry over how good it is."
Jean sniffed dramatically, spoon already diving in.
"If I do, they will be tears of gratitude."
They ate in relative peace for a while, only the clink of spoons and the bubbling sound from the stove filling the silence. Erika leaned back after a few bites, watching Jean inhale his food with alarming speed.
"So… who exactly is this client of yours? Some rich noble?"
Jean perked up, his mouth still half-full.
"Mhm! Quite the peculiar commission, actually. A daughter of some knight—well, a very decorated one. Goes by the name Liana Green."
Erika tilted her head, spoon halfway to her mouth.
"Never heard of her. What's she like? Maybe I'll bump into her if I'm out running errands."
Jean's eyes gleamed as if he'd been waiting for the chance.
"Oh, Erika, you would know her if you saw her. She's striking. Hair like burnished copper. Eyes—a piercing green, the common kind, but sharp, clear, like polished emeralds."
Erika froze mid-bite.
Wait. Copper hair? Green eyes? No. Surely not.
Jean, oblivious, leaned in with enthusiasm. "And tall—good heavens, taller than any woman I've ever seen. Taller than half the men in the market!"
He laughed fondly, spoon wagging for emphasis.
"She has this presence… like she could fill a room just by standing there, and yet somehow she makes it feel natural. Graceful, commanding, and impossible to ignore."
Erika froze. The spoon hovered an inch from her mouth, her wide eyes staring at Jean as though he'd just announced the world was ending. Her brain scrambled for sense.
Copper hair. Green eyes. Taller than most men?.. Oh no. Oh gods. Don't tell me that brick wall of a woman I bumped into earlier…
Jean paused mid-scoop, spoon hovering over his bowl.
"Erika… What's wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost—or maybe something worse than that."
Jean kept rambling cheerfully, oblivious. Erika's spoon trembled, dripping broth back into the bowl as her jaw slowly unhinged.
Erika slowly pushed her chair back and crossed her arms. She leaned back, her face adopting an almost serious expression. She drew in a deep breath, her blue eyes narrowing as if weighing the gravity of the revelation.
"Jean… I may have… crossed paths with her," she said, dripping with a mix of disbelief and dread.
Jean, still shoveling another spoonful of the delicious chicken soup into his mouth, paused mid-bite, eyebrows knitting together.
"With who…? Is it the lady I mentioned?"
Erika nodded solemnly.
"Yes… and I may—or may not—have been… let's just say… rude to her."
Jean froze, the spoon slipping from his fingers, soup dribbling onto the edge of his bowl. His eyes widened in mock horror.
Erika mirrored his motion. Jean, folding his arms across his chest as he stared at her in resigned disbelief.
In the silence that followed, both of them sat there, arms crossed, silently acknowledging a truth everyone in their world knew, insulting a noble and walking away unscathed was a matter of sheer luck.
A nervous laugh escaped Erika.
"Well… luckily she doesn't know me, yet," she said, trying to sound casual but failing entirely.
Jean shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing in mock exasperation.
"Actually… I may have mentioned your name. She needed to know who would be helping me with the commission she requested…"
The two shared a look of defeat, soup forgotten for a moment, before the aroma of the meal drew them back to reality, and they finally resumed eating, albeit a bit more cautiously—and with far less confidence in Erika's diplomacy.