Work Text:
Caelus studied the sign above the new tailor's shop. 'House of Dekima' was framed with tasteful scroll-work. Apprentice tailors were seated in wide show windows to take any advantage of all bright sunlight they could eke out of the day as they worked on sumptuous fabrics. Further inside the shop he could see Dekima directing other workers with broad gestures that left his shirt and hair in an even more disheveled state with every passing moment. Remembering the way Hestia smiled freely at the burly tailor made something in Caelus' heart clench painfully.
She was so expressive; she would flit wildly from one mood to the next. Caelus never knew what she was going to do next, but one consistency he couldn't help but notice was how he always made her look like her heart was breaking. Dekima didn't. He helped her with her schemes through his skills or his connections. He made her smile.
Before he even knew what he was doing Caelus found himself inside the shop, ready to confront the other man and... what? Demand that he not provide services bought and paid for? Dekima turned at the bright tinkling sound of the bell over the door.
“Marquess!” His smile dimmed slightly as he looked past Caelus. “Is the Marchioness not with you?”
Stay away from my wife! Caelus covered the unseemly surge of jealousy with a cold look. “No, she had matters to see to at home. However, on seeing the shop was open I thought to see how our investment was doing.”
The subtle reminder of the other man's place did not have the intended effect. Instead Dekima grinned broadly once again. “Of course! Of course! I cannot thank you and the Marchioness enough! Would you like a tour?”
He barely waited for Caelus to offer a slight nod in acquiescence before launching into an animated explanation and waving his hands wildly at the well furnished room around them. If it weren't for the strategically placed high-reflection aluminum mirrors and the working tailors in the windows, there was little to distinguish the shop from a salon or club. “I was able to purchase the whole building! This storefront that opens onto boulevard is set up for our high end clientele looking to purchase a custom gown. And, the best part, we've converted the service entrance at the back of the building to a second storefront for alterations and repairs. Come! Let me show you!”
He led Caelus to the back of the shop and up a narrow staircase to the second floor where bolts of cheaper fabrics lined the walls and more apprentice tailors, girls and boys younger than the ones working downstairs, were all busily working on a myriad of projects from dresses to coats.
“This space also doubles as our main work area, downstairs is mostly for fittings and fine work. Having space for a wide variety of work allows the apprentices to earn while- Juventas!”
The entire workroom froze as Dekima stalked forward to loom over a petrified boy of twelve with a pair of steel shears in one hand and a length of cloth spread out before him. A girl with her own lap full of material, cautiously leaned over to pull the boy's share of cloth from between the shaking blades of the boy's shears mere seconds before they closed with a loud scrape of metal across metal. The boy let out a startled squeak. “Sir?”
Dekima cleared his throat and gave the boy a stern look. “What is your task for this project?”
“Um?” The boy looked down at the closed shears in his hands like they had somehow betrayed him. “Cutting strips for edge binding?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling, sir.”
“And what kind of cut is used?”
“Um-” he looked at the girl next to him, who tried to mouth the answer.
“Should I be giving Hebe's father your apprentice fees?” Dekima asked dryly. The girl hunched down, like she was trying to hide behind the folds of cloth in her lap.
“No, sir!” The boy said quickly. “Um, bias cut?”
Caelus couldn't help the small hitch in his breath as he recognized the unfamiliar word. I have a bias! You're my favorite! Before he could reconsider he found himself stepping up to small drama that he had been prepared to politely ignore a moment before. “Bias? What is that?”
“Very good question.” Dekima gave Caelus a conspiratorial grin before turning a stern look to the boy. “Juventas?”
The boy glanced nervously between the two of them before giving a shaky answer. “Its, um, a diagonal cut cloth that makes it stretchy and stops fraying.”
“Stops fraying?” Caelus echoed, as he tried to match the definition with the words Hestia had blurted out.
“Well, um,” The boy stammered and looked to Dekima for help.
“Depends ultimately on the fabric, but strong stitches along with a bias cut can help prolong the life of a garment. Bias cut strips are good for navigating complex shapes or areas were flexibility is important.” Dekima said, half to Caelus and half to Juventas. “A straight cut strip may be more economical if the amount of available fabric is an issue. So, the type of cut should be carefully balanced with the needs of the project.”
The boy, now thoroughly scolded, hunched down and carefully turned the cloth laid out before him. The girl helpfully nudged an angle and piece of chalk to the boy without saying a word. Caelus watched the interplay with a furrowed brow.
“Apologies,” Caelus said, his mouth forming the words even as his mind was entirely focused on this new piece of the puzzle that was his wife. “I should probably leave you to your work. I'd only meant to step in for a moment.”
“Oh, no, your lordship!” Dekima said. “I'm sorry to take so much time out of your day. Please feel free to stop by any time.”
“Of course,” Caelus murmured as he walked away. How can a person be bias like cloth?
* * *
It was late by the time he returned to the manor. Uros greeted him at the door and, as he took Caelus' coat, discretely checked him for signs of hurt or self-harm. Caelus allowed him the small signs of care without complaint. “Is Hestia still available for receiving?”
“The Marchioness has retired for the evening,” Uros said primly, folding the coat over his arm. He hesitated slightly before adding. “Though, I'm sure she would be reassured to learn of your return.”
He didn't need to say why, though few of his household spoke openly of his suicide attempt that Hestia had thwarted, it often hung heavy in the air. Caelus turned towards his office. “I've no objection if you wish to tell her.”
Uros coughed politely into his gloved fist. “It would be more reassuring if my lord would wish to spare her a moment.”
Oh. oh! Caelus flushed slightly feeling much like the tailor boy earlier receiving a scolding. “Of course.” He murmured a soft agreement as he turned away from his office and towards the wing of the manor that housed Hestia. His steps faltered. “Uros? Did- did you have Hestia's background investigated?”
Uros glanced up in surprise before his expression smoothed out once more. “Of course. Should I send it to your office, my lord?”
It only made sense for Uros to be surprised. At first he was too mired in his own depression and misery to care where the strange woman had come from, and now she was such a fixture in his life he had little care for it so long that she was here. “No. Just one thing, did she have any connection to the trades?”
Uros' brow furrowed in a thoughtful frown. “Her father was a merchant, trading in cloth and silks. He left her the monies that secured her title. Her mother's family owned a tailor's shop—corsetry, I believe—though it seems the woman only sewed privately after marrying.”
Caelus hummed thoughtfully as he let his feet carry him to Hestia's rooms. It would make sense for her to learn the terms de arte from her mother and use the words she was familiar with to try to understand her strange powers and visions. He was at her door sooner then expected, and no closer to understanding. He knocked softly, “Hestia?”
He opened to door at the call to enter to see find her sprawled out on a divan, dressed in a thin, finely woven white chemise clinging shamelessly to her curves, the embroidered robe doing little beside framing her pale shoulders. On the low coffee table beside her was an absolutely obscene amount of liquor, juices, and half-filled glassware.
“Cael! You're back.” She straightened up as he entered and grinned at him. Her red lips stretched wide and flushed cheeks looking far more charming than they probably should warrant. She patted the divan next to her. “Come in! Sit. Sit!”
Obligingly, he entered and shut the door behind him.
“I wanted to let you know I was back,” he explained awkwardly. Once seated, she curled in towards him and he could smell the alcohol on her breath. Damp curls stuck to her temple and cheek. He tried to ignore the way she leaned into his touch as he brushed them away from her face. “And what are we doing here?”
“Celebrating!” she announced cheerfully. He couldn't help but smile.
“Oh? What's the occasion?” he asked, but she continued rambling over him.
“I thought I'd try mixing some drinks I used to like, but I am really bad at it. I mean, really bad. Should not be allowed near a drinks cabinet bad. Most of this is awful swamp waters.” She paused and stared at the spread of liquor before her. “Swamp water? What's the correct plural form? Oh, here, this one's not completely terrible!”
She picked up one tall glass three quarters full of a rich red liquid, sniffed at it before unceremoniously shoving it in his hands. He managed to catch it without spilling, and brought it up to sniff cautiously at it, not really sure what he was expecting by something collectively described as 'swamp water'. It smelled of tomato and sharp spices. A cloudy smear at the rim of the glass was its own temptation. He brought it up to his lips and tasted the wax and vanilla of her lip pomade before the liquid of the drink washed over it. It was rich and spicy and sweet. The alcohol was almost hidden, but the flavors of the drink couldn't mask the burn. He lowered the glass to find her watching him anxiously.
“I know its not your favorite, but what do you think? I think I may need some help getting through all this if I want to avoid blood alcohol poisoning.”
“You're right. Its not terrible,” he teased gently. She blushed and took a long pull from another glass of golden-brown liquid. A grimace stole over her face and he took the glass from her. “We can just throw out the ones you don't like.”
“And waste all this alcohol?” she gasped dramatically and clutched one hand over her heart, bunching and pulling at the neckline of her chemise. She paused, and straightened up. “Oh! Right. The occasion, its, um-”
He felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips as he tried not to laugh at her antics. He reached out to brush the hair away from the side of her face. Not because she needed it, but because he wanted to touch her. Reassure himself that she was real.
“You didn't die!” His blood froze in his veins. He- what? The glass fell from numb fingers to spill on the carpet at his feet. Hestia let out a surprised yelp before pushing herself off the divan to the floor to try to sop at the spilled liquid with a nearby towel that had already gained several questionable stains. “Oh, man, this poor rug is not going to be salvageable.”
The words she was muttering were a distant to the buzzing in his ears. He swallowed and tried to speak. “Hestia.”
She looked up. Something must have shown on his face. Hestia's bright smile fell away. “Oh, well- I mean. Of course, you didn't.”
She turned away from him. Her fingers twisting the cloth in her hands. He gently lifted her chin back towards him. Tears glistened at the corner of her eyes. “Hes, tell me.”
“You drank poison,” she said. The words harsh and heavy. He could feel her trembling against him, her body a line of heat against his calf. “In my vision. But, it didn't happen. We looked everywhere. Uros tossed your office. Chloris and the maids checked everywhere else in the house, but we couldn't find any trace of the poison. Do you know what that means?”
He could only stare at her in numb shock. When would he- He didn't- He shook his head, and she gave him a tremulous smile. “You didn't. You didn't even try . You're getting better , and I'm so happy.”
He was getting better? The words felt alien, but also not entirely wrong. He still felt the weight of it. The looming despair. But compared to last month, to last week, it was- bearable. The all consuming of it had cracks, moments were he was glad to see this world. The sweet smell of a blooming rose. Hestia's smile. There were things that he would miss if he wasn't here. It had been a long time since he could say that was true. Something he could not say if Hestia had not stepped in on that fateful day to stop him.
Hestia. She had stopped more than one vision from coming to pass. And, here, another vision was proven false in its entirety. Her powers were fading. And she was happy . He felt disgusted with himself. She wasn't worth- I have a bias! You're my favorite!
“What have I done to earn your favor so?” He asked softly, more to himself then expecting any answer.
“Silly, you don't have to do anything,” Hestia chided him with a smile. She lay her head in his lap. “You're my favorite because you are. And I love you.”
His breath caught in his throat. Why? What did she see? She had proven that her visions could be detailed to the smallest minutia, but also left other things hidden. Why? Why were some things deemed inconsequential and others important. “Is it because of your- bias?”
“Nooo-pe!” She giggled and reached out with one finger pointing into the air above them. “Tha' backwards. M' bias because you're my favorite.”
He gently carded her hair back from where it had once again fallen in her face. Poets often spoke of men's lives as thread spun by the fates. But if a mortal could see the the threads and the cloth they wove, surely anyone would go mad. He couldn't help but remember what he had learned earlier, Bias cut strips are good for navigating complex shapes or areas were flexibility is important. Seeing everything may drive a mortal mad, but if the mind could be focused and shaped around a single life then that would surely be easier to bear. He just couldn't understand why. They had never met before that day. Did she not just fall in love with the man her visions showed her? But, instead she claimed that her powers chose their focus by her care for him. How could that be true if she didn't know him? How could she know him without her visions aiding her?
His circling thoughts were interrupted by a soft snore. He looked down to find Hestia fast asleep, leaning against him with her head pillowed in his lap. He gave a soft laugh and carefully eased out from underneath her. She was light in his arms when he picked her up and carried her to her bed. Not even waking when he lay her down on top of the white wholecloth quilt. He let himself have a moment to sit beside her and enjoy her warm presence; even asleep she was a comfort to him.
Almost without conscious thought his fingers gently combed through her hair. The sable strands were thick and soft. They spilled across the pillow in gentle waves where a small flaw caught his eye. The stitching in one corner of the pillowcase had started to come undone. The edges of the silk had become unraveled and frayed. Bias stops cloth from fraying .
She spoke of a future darkness where her powers stopped and she could see no further. Death had been mentioned as a possibility—spoken lightly as if she had no care for her own death, even after going to such lengths to stop his. But, what if death wasn't the only possibility? Could a mind fray like cloth? What was madness if not that? The thought was a new ache in his heart.
Gently he picked up her hand and clasped it between his own. He bent his head to brush his lips lightly brush against her knuckles. She smelled of petrichor and warm musk like a summer rain. He had never been a particularly devout man. His relationship with God was more a matter of expectations and ceremony, but in this moment he prayed. Take her powers if you must, but please don't take her. Not to death or madness. Ask from me anything, and I will give. Just please, not this.