The following morning, Jack spent a couple more hours inscribing [Chronos Sphere] spell scrolls, once again forgetting all about his exercise program. After a family breakfast, he headed into the city via shadowy alleyways for his nine o’clock appointment with a tailor. The fitting had been arranged by his father to outfit him in a new suit, bowler hat, and shoes for his debut at the Royal Library as a Novice Scribe.

  Five minutes early, Jack stepped from the cobbled street into the cool interior of Thorn and Tallow, master tailor to Lundun’s white-collar workers. The bell above the door chimed, and a gentle plume of spent aether-steam curled from brass vents overhead.

  Jack looked around the shop’s interior. It’s been a while since I’ve been here. He’d visited Thorn and Tallow a half dozen times in his past life. It’s where he and his father bought all their work clothes. Having spent twenty-plus years living through the grief of losing his family, his memories of the place were vague and patchy.

  The interior was what he’d remembered of the tailoring establishment catering to the city’s scribes, librarians, and clerks. The air was rich with the scent of fine fabrics, natural dyes and a subtle note of charcoal ink. Rich burgundy wallpaper lined the walls, beneath which fine-tailored coats hung on gleaming brass hooks.

  An enormous oil painting of the Royal Library’s front fa?ade dominated one wall, its gilded frame catching lantern light. Shelves groaned beneath sumptuous bolts of deep charcoal wool, midnight velvet, and silken linings threaded with pale blue aether-filaments that shimmered as they caught the light. Beside the counter, an aether-powered coat press hissed, exhaling pale blue steam in gentle curls.

  “Welcome, Jack. I’m Thorn, proprietor of this humble establishment,” intoned a dignified voice. From behind a polished mahogany counter emerged an older gentleman in a crisp pressed waistcoat, spectacles perched at the end of his nose. He offered Jack his hand. “Your father has sent word that you require a fitting for your new post as Novice Scribe at the Royal Library. Congratulations on your prestigious posting, young man.”

  Jack returned the handshake and inclined his head. “Thank you.” A flush of pride warmed his cheeks, but with it came a touch of apprehension. A dark grey suit, bowler hat, and polished shoes were symbols of respectability; they signified a world from which he’d been absent from for the past twenty years. Would he slip back into that role like a hand in a well-worn glove, or had time and the pursuit of vengeance changed him too much?

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  “Let us begin.” Thorn led Jack across polished oak floorboards to an automated measuring stand. “Meet Tallow. He’ll be your tailor this morning.” He turned to a slender man perched by the stand. “Your next client, give him your best.” With a polite nod, Thorn returned to the counter.

  Tallow adjusted his own spectacles, the frames sliding down his nose. His expression was akin to a disappointed headmaster’s, yet his eyes betrayed a keen interest. “I always do.” He offered Jack a firm handshake before stepping back to survey him. “Right shoulder sits a touch lower. Likely from overuse. Sword arm, is it?”

  He said that the first time around as well. Jack recalled. When I got home, I thought of a hilarious response. Jack replied with a smile, “Heavy pens… and perhaps lifting a few too many pastries and desserts if I’m honest.” He mimicked raising food into his mouth and chuckled. Yes! Perfect delivery.

  The tailor lowered his head to look over his glasses; he didn’t blink. “Quite droll.” He gestured to a curtained alcove. “Please strip to your undergarments for the initial measurements.”

  Hmm… that was funny. You uptight git. Jack shook his head.

  Moments later, Jack re-emerged in nothing but his underwear and socks. Tallow directed him to step inside the brass-and-oak-framed device. A trio of measuring drones—sleek, beetle-like constructs of polished brass—whirred into life, each emitting tiny puffs of spent aether-steam as they extended slender, rune-enchanted scanners.

  Jack held his breath as the scanners probed his form, recording every contour with small clicks. One drone paused at an awkward angle, measuring his inseam, prompting him to flinch; another poked his side at the arrow wound, surprising him. He forced himself to remain still, imagining the reader’s eye as a strict librarian noting each minor imperfection in a book cover.

  Within seconds, the drones retracted, and a soft chime signalled completion. “Perfect.” Tallow examined a read-out on a small crystal panel. “Your measurements are now saved. We’ll adjust for posture and any lingering… injuries.” He led Jack to a fitting chair beside a long mirror. “Now, let us discuss the style. You requested a dark grey suit, bowler hat, and shoes. For the jacket, I recommend a double-breasted cut in worsted wool, subtle charcoal grey. The lining will be a satin weave imbued with aether-filament, to wick moisture away and prevent creasing.” He waited for Jack’s response.

  “That sounds perfect.” It was the same style his father wore and what the same tailor suggested almost a quarter of a century earlier. He’d felt comfortable in the suit and so saw no reason to change anything.

  The tailor smiled and continued. “And of course, it will include the requested interior pocket for your scribe pen. Your father insisted that this area be imbued with stain-resistant alchemical elements. Similar to what we use on the collars and cuffs of our shirts. This extra precaution is to prevent discolouring should your pen ever leak.”

  Jack’s eyes lit. He remembered the pocket where, for over four years, he’d stored the pen his father had gifted him after his first class choosing day. He patted his chest where the scribe pen would live beside his heart.