Sunlight streamed through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, restless spirits.

  The rhythmic snipping of scissors and the steady hum of sewing machines formed a steady backdrop to the true soundtrack of the workplace, which was gossip.

  It was a daily ritual. The older women, their own workloads lighter, were the primary conductors of this social symphony. They sat in a loose circle, their hands busy with minor alterations, their tongues far busier.

  “And I heard,” said one, not even looking up from the hem she was stitching, “Anna has joined that mad painter’s shop as a disciple…”

  “That explains why she’s been strutting about lately, chin up, like she’s above all of us”.

  1st one added, “Imagine, trailing after a man with brushes and stains all over his clothes. And she calls it learning. As if a decent woman needs to learn anything from the likes of him.”

  Another chimed in, lowering her voice as if sharing a scandal, “And you know, that man is always holed up in that old warehouse of his, splashing paint on rags he calls canvases. Trash, all of it, no one ever buys a single piece. He’s forever covered in paint, too, as if he owns only one set of clothes. I swear, you could smell the turpentine before you even see him.”

  First lady leaned in closer. “They say he stood by the riverside the entire night. Just standing there, staring, like some madman. And after all that, he doesn’t even paint the moon or stars, or any decent scenery. I don’t even know what he draws. My husband said it was… well, he couldn’t make sense of it either.”

  Her words hung in the air like a thread waiting to be pulled. Around her, The younger, more burdened seamstresses didn’t stop their work.

  Their eyes remained fixed on the intricate embroidery or precise cuts before them, but their ears were tilted, absorbing every word. This was their theater, their novel, their primary form of entertainment.

  Emily, seated a little apart at her own station, felt the familiar knot of discomfort tighten in her stomach. A pile of unfinished gowns lay before her, demanding her focus, but the chatter was inescapable. It wasn’t the act of talking she disliked, it was the specific, venomous flavor of it.

  It was the quickness to judge, the eagerness to assign the worst possible motives, the sheer pleasure some seemed to derive from painting others in a sinister light.

  She was, herself, an occasional subject of their whispers, and she knew about it. But to speak up was to risk becoming their next central character. The network of gossip ran through Pipra Town like a hidden root system, and it could strangle a reputation before one even knew it was under attack.

  Her mind drifted, as it often did during these sessions, to a memory she could never forget. A young woman, new to the town, had fallen gravely ill. Her husband, desperate, had spent their savings on every physician and hedge-witch he could find. The talk in the boutique, led by the same voices now dissecting Lady Anya, had been merciless.

  “Ill? She’s just lazy,” one had declared with finality. “Seen it a hundred times. Doesn’t want to care for her mother-in-law, doesn’t want to keep house.”

  “All that money wasted on charlatans. That poor, hard-working man, being led by the nose.”

  The whispers had seeped out of the boutique and into the town. The story grew, as gossip does, gaining terrible new details with each retelling. She was not just lazy, she was manipulative, she was trying to turn her husband against his family, she was a spendthrift who would ruin him. She was funneling all the money to her lover.

  The quiet sympathy she might have received curdled into open disdain. Their looks filled with silent accusation. By the time she died, the town had already tried and convicted her of character flaws far worse than her sickness.

  And did the gossips feel remorse? No. They had simply moved on to the next topic, their certainty in their own judgment unshaken.

  That was what truly scared Emily. Not the pettiness, but the power. The power to rewrite a person’s truth with lies and exaggerations, and the chilling lack of accountability that followed.

  She kept her head down, her needle moving in and out of the rich velvet in her hands, a silent prisoner to the very court whose judgments she feared.

  She dared not correct them. She dared not even sigh in disagreement. She simply worked, hoping the focus would stay away from her.

  The gossip about the woman and the painter was beginning to fray, its petty threads losing strength. The whispers had dwindled to half-hearted chuckles when the sharp rustle of paper sliced through the room.

  Madame Renée, seated at her usual place by the window, lowered the imperial gazette with deliberate care. The sound alone was enough to command the seamstresses’ attention.

  “Looks like there’s been another one,” she said, her voice crisp and cold, cutting through the residual chatter like a blade through fabric. “Last night. That makes five now.” She tapped the paper with a lacquered fingernail, each strike echoing in the stillness. “And meanwhile the City Guard waste their days checking market permits and harassing street vendors. Useless.”

  One of the younger seamstresses faltered mid-stitch, her needle suspended like a glinting shard of hesitation. “Who… who was it this time?” she whispered.

  Madame Renée’s eyes flicked back to the print. Her lips thinned. “A girl from the porcelain factory on the west side. They found her just before dawn, hanging from the signpost over old man Hemlock’s shop.” She drew in a breath, and her next words fell like stones. “The monster took her eyes. And both her arms. From the elbow down.”

  A collective gasp tore through the room. One of the youngest girls clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry. Even the older women, usually hardened by years of toil and talk, turned pale.

  The owner’s gaze swept over them, cool and unwavering. “Listen to me, all of you,” she said, every syllable firm. “No more walking home alone after dark. No shortcuts through alleys. You leave together, and you go straight home. This isn’t some cutpurse or drunkard. This is a freak. And the gods only know who he’ll choose next.”

  Nods rippled through the room.

  Lucien moved through the streets of Pipra Town with an air of detached purpose. His presence carved a wake of uneasy silence, heads turning once, instinctively, before snapping away. No one dared a sustained stare, it was as if some primal instinct warned them of a predator.

  The other Sinclairs had dispersed to procure their individual gifts, and he too needed to select one.

  What would a female of approximately eighteen years prefer?

  The entire concept was cumbersome. Yet, he had taken the task, and if Selena or the others viewed it as a test of his aptitude in this new social arena, that was all the more reason to execute it flawlessly.

  Jewelry is the statistically common choice. However, the risk of error is high. My unfamiliarity with current trends and feminine tastes leaves too much room for error. Furthermore, this could lead to possible hostility.

  An extravagant gift could be perceived as a bribe or an insult, a display of wealth meant to intimidate.

  It must be usable, of clear quality, but not ostentatious. A gift that fulfills the formality without revealing any specific intention.

  I do not trust her. I do not trust any of them. Each stands as a prime suspect in the broader calculus of threats against our family. This meeting is not social, it is reconnaissance.

  The gift serves as a necessary piece of camouflage, A polite way to mask the true purpose that is observation.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He did not need to win her heart. He needed to observe hers, and the hearts of her household, for cracks of deceit.

  Lucien yawned a little, bored by walking and, to be more particular, unable to decisively conclude what to buy.

  He kept gazing through shops and stalls, his analytical mind cycling through and dismissing options with cold efficiency.

  In doing so, he had almost drifted out of the main market and into a quieter, covered arcade. This area was filled with specialized shops: tailors, boutiques, stores selling decorative items and flowers. It was spacious, but the air was still and expectant.

  Looks like my confusion is not going to be sorted out any sooner, Should I just buy some expensive sweets? No. I cannot just show up with only sweets. It would be insufficient.

  His eyes, landed on a display of fine fabrics in a nearby window.

  Hmm. That might work. Gifting a full, finished dress would be too presumptuous regarding her measurements and taste. But I can surely gift high-quality fabric. It is a resource.

  As for the preference issue, I will buy multiple types which are currently trending from a few different shops. This increases the probability of inclusion and allows her the illusion of choice. She will pick whatever she likes. Knowing Finn and Ultimare, they wouldn't buy clothes. This ensures my gift remains distinct.

  His eyes scanned the arcade, evaluating the stores for the optimal combination of quality and variety. In the end, his gaze locked onto a boutique with a wide array of dresses displayed. The storefront looked clean, organized, and decently appointed, meeting his baseline criteria for acceptable quality.

  He was still several paces from the door when he felt the shift. The weight of multiple gazes from inside the shop settled on him. He ignored it, as he ignored all irrelevant environmental noise.

  He opened the door.

  The soft chime of the bell was the only sound. His sudden appearance seemed to freeze the air inside.

  Madame Renée: "What a delightful surprise to have such a marvelous young lord visit us this afternoon! How may I be of service to you?"

  Before Lucien could speak, another lady approached, presenting a fine chair. She bowed gracefully, gestured politely for him to sit, and then withdrew. Lucien accepted the invitation and took the seat.

  “I desire to buy some fabric. Those which are most in trend these days and are of high quality.”

  Madame Renée, her professional instincts overriding her awe, offered a deep, respectful nod. “For sure, my lord. For sure.” She turned, her smile strained but impeccable. “Hey! Bring sample rolls of all the new, high-quality fabrics. Here, on the central table.”

  This was a breach of protocol even for nobility, they were expected to walk to the displays. For him, the rules were rewritten instantly.

  Emily had just finished hemming the sixth gown of the afternoon and was massaging the stiffness out of her fingers when the shop bell chimed.

  It wasn’t unusual for men to enter the boutique, but they usually came trailing their wives, sister or mothers. Rarely did one stride in alone with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged in any room he entered.

  She didn’t look up at first. She told herself it wasn’t her concern. But the silence itself became oppressive, a pressure she couldn’t ignore. She finally glanced toward the front.

  The young man possessed an aura that drew attention without ever needing to ask for it. His dark hair fell neatly, almost too deliberately, and his face might have been called beautiful if not for the quiet, unintentional intimidation radiating from him. His eyes, cold and piercing, were the pale green of peridots, regarding his surroundings with detached indifference.

  His attire, tailored in a dark palette and designed especially for him, adorned him like a mantle of power, clearly marking a status most could only dream of.

  As Emily watched him, the only comparison that came to mind was a lion—majestic, beautiful, and impossible for smaller creatures to ignore.

  Yes, to Emily, it felt as though a lion had suddenly walked into the shop. Not that she disliked it, in truth, she was a little fascinated.

  Emily stayed seated, waiting for someone else to move, but the others were suddenly very busy not meeting her eyes. She was the fastest stitcher in the room. That made her the default choice.

  Fine.

  She rose, dusted off her skirt, and moved toward the display shelves. Her movements were neat, economical born of repetition, not the fluttering nerves some of the other girls were visibly fighting.

  She gathered three bolts: a deep twilight blue silk, a crisp ivory brocade, and a muted green crepe that caught the light like leaves after rain.

  She moved toward him without any theatrics.

  Lucien’s gaze settled on her, quietly analyzing. Her hair was white as snow, framing a face marked by clear blue eyes and a composed, confident expression.

  Her movements were smooth and efficient, the practiced motions of someone who didn’t need to guess. Her eyes scanned the shelves not in uncertainty, but with the assurance of someone who knew exactly what she was looking for.

  From the many options available, she had chosen only three fabrics—precise, deliberate choices, as if she instinctively knew what would be best for him.

  This one knows her craft, she could be of some use.

  With calm precision, Emily laid the three fabrics out on the table before him.

  Madame Renée: “Would you bother telling me for whom you are buying for? It would help me advise you.”

  Lucien cut her off, his voice flat and final. “Get me all of it.”

  For a heartbeat, Madame Renée was stunned into silence.

  She quickly gathered herself. “All of it… sir? Are you certain?”

  Lucien nodded once in agreement.

  “Of course, young lord. Right away.” She turned briskly, gathering the fabrics with her.

  “You chose them?” Lucien asked, his voice low as he looked at Emily, who was just standing beside the table.

  “Yes,” Emily replied.

  “Why only these three?”

  “They’re our finest in quality,” she said, “but more importantly, they suit anyone. You clearly didn’t know the recipient’s taste, so I picked what’s universally becoming.”

  She leaned slightly closer, voice dropping. “You were going to buy it all, weren’t you? As long as it met some standard. I just saved you unnecessary expense by removing the ones that would have been hit or miss.”

  Lucien was quietly impressed. “Why go so far? Wouldn’t more sales benefit you?”

  Emily straightened, offering a polite, professional smile. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s my job to assist customers, after all.”

  Those inside the shop watched, stunned, as Emily held a flawless, informal conversation with the intimidating noble. Some felt a sharp spike of resentment. It was salt on their wounded pride.

  One woman whispered to another, her voice low and bitter, "Look at the bitch. She is flaunting That she is someone who is common in noble circles and used to such presence."

  The other replied, "Noble, my ass. She is just like the rest of us—or perhaps worse. But look at the ego she is showing. Shameless wench."

  A few more wanted to add their own barbs, but they held their tongues, unwilling to risk being overheard.

  Once Madame Renée had the fabrics packed, Lucien turned to her. His tone was practical. "Can I borrow the one who picked these for the rest of my shopping? I will pay for her time and your losses."

  Madame Renée agreed with ease. "Of course. Emily has the best sense and eye in the shop." She laughed, a sound filled with clear disdain for the other workers.

  A few of the junior seamstresses felt a flicker of gladness that one of their own rank had received such acknowledgment, while the others simmered in silent jealousy.

  Emily fell into step just behind Lucien as they exited the boutique. “What next, my lord?” she asked. “You have the fabric. Perhaps accessories to match it?” A light laugh escaped her. “Do not worry. I will ensure you receive the best value.”

  Lucien without any expression. “If you say so. But first, I require another full set. Lead me to the establishments you deem superior. You will make the selections.”

  A small, knowing smile touched Emily’s lips. “Of course. I will ensure the recipient feels all the care you are attempting to convey.”

  “Care?” Lucien’s reply was flat. “How is that care when I refuse to think through the choices myself? I’m delegating the whole task to you. Where’s the care in that?”

  Emily laughed softly, though her eyes held a spark of reasoned determination. “Oh, Lord, I do not believe people overthink these things that much. It is the thought behind the gesture that counts, not every single choice you make. You have already gone so far as to personally come to a women-oriented place—something most men would shy away from on their own. That alone shows care.”

  “If we thought like you do, most husbands and fathers would also appear thoughtless sometimes, would they not? People do not always know exactly what someone wants. Sometimes they give what they think is best, and sometimes, those who truly care ask for a little help to make sure the gift is enjoyed. Or sometimes they don't have money to gift something grand, That is not a lack of thoughtfulness.”

  “Besides,” she continued, her tone confident, “It’s not like you know the recipient personally, right? All the more reason not to worry about it too much. Once you meet her and get to know her better, it will be easier to decide next time.”

  Lucien paused, his gaze lingering on her face.

  Hmm. I see why she holds my attention. This manner… aside from my siblings, no one has dared to be this casual with me. For some reason, she is capable of it. I have consciously suppressed any radiating presence or pressure from me drastically, yet a baseline intensity remains—enough to make the unaccustomed flinch.

  But it looks like she is accustomed to that much. I wonder why, though that’s not important right now. For now, she’s useful, I’ll entertain for the time being. After all, I have to get used to this place.

  Shop by shop, Emily helped Lucien assemble a collection of fine gifts and accessories, never suspecting she was, in fact, curating her own.