Mosaic, at least, was born to shop. Or well. No she wasn't. The concept of the gold held very little sway inside her head except that it was pretty, and the call of coin would have been hollow if not for the fact that she was certain she was in the one place where a pair of coins was necessary to move forward. But just the two, for each of them. All the rest was pointless, confusing, and she'd be happy enough in any of these clothes if they got her what she wanted. Which was movement. Forward please, Vesper. She is missing her Beloved, do you not understand? 

Modeling. That's the thing she's actually the best at. Vesper only confirms it with every new selection, every fresh experiment. The pile that's 'for' her grows so disproportionately large that it's starting to make her tail bush in irritation. 

She is born to wear high gowns with trails that drag the ground behind her. She is born for short and swishy pleated skirts with saucy button up blouses that don't entirely cover her prodigious assets with anything approaching a Duchess' level (she assumes) of decorum. She is born for sleek and slitted dresses, for long coats and short ones, for frills and for lace and on, and on, and on. 

In the end it is the look her other sister is giving her: one part high effort smile to one part bravely hidden whine to one part not-at-all hidden glare that convinces her to speak up. Enough. Rather than trusting to Vesper's expertise, Mosaic adds her own opinions to the mix to best help sort the selections fairly. The idea of the exercise itself being folly does not occur to her. Her family is four sisters, including herself. The past is not so clear as the city skyline is just now, but just to look and hear and smell and touch the three of them is enough to know that they all wore the cost of many miles and atrocities upon their shoulders.

And knowing that, wasn't that worth at [i]least[/i] making sure everybody looked their best on the other side of this journey? For... however long that might take? One outfit apiece. They agree on this much. But given that, it has to be the best in all of creation. That's how they'll know each other, if every other signal should fail them. No group anywhere could be so beautiful. 

But what does Mosaic know of fashions? Her beauty is haphazard. Her body rejects nothing out of hand. The slim cuts and the heavy ones. The revealing masterpieces and the concealing comfort clothes. Somehow it all looks great. Somehow it all feels nice. But even so, it's not like she's come into this battle unarmed. There are some freebies. She cuts several cocktail dresses because of how fantastic they would look on her clear-voiced sister, and cuts a robe, a fluttering sleeved shirt, and a massive coat with almost as many buttons as pockets because the idea of seeing Vesper in them instead puts a smile on her lips. She shrugs off the shutter shades, somewhat at random. 

And from there she's out of tools. And there are still so many outfits to model. Button mashing is the last and best tool of the desperate, and though she doesn't know it by that name Mosaic employs the strategy with gusto. That shows too much leg, away with it. That doesn't show enough leg, rejected. That doesn't show too much leg, get it gone. Shut up, actually? Who cares if she's making sense, she's making [i]decisions[/i], ok? Like either of you two know anything about that!

Bit by bit, the possibilities dwindle. Without any conscious hand guiding her decisions, a pattern forms in the shape of a dream. Or an obligation, maybe. Something ephemeral and impossible that nevertheless touches her and pulls her toward a single thought just as inevitably as she found her name. And when everything else is gone, Mosaic is left with suits. 

The cuts come further. Faster. More certain. Wrong color, sister. Too loose a fit. It needs to fit more of a... no, here. Look at this. 

From endless possibility shines a single light and washes out every other color, and every shadow along with it. The jacket only has a sleeve on the left arm, melting somehow as it crosses her chest to a two-button vest that leaves plenty of the tight fitting, white button up shirt and the delicate black tie she pulls taut around her neck. High waisted slacks hug her hips like a lover might, covering the socks (blue-black, like her hair) except where the points of her shiny, tall heeled shoes let them poke through at the tops of her feet. At her back, the suit jacket unfurls like a cloak that brushes near the ground by her tail, principally on her right side where her front clothes are shortest. And where the fabric flutters open, all that midnight black and moonlit white is obliterated by a bold streak of crimson coating the inside of her clothes.

This is the barter by which she will mint her coins, she's sure of it. This is how she's meant to look. This thing, which is many things stitched together by some clever or desperate hand, is beautiful in a way that nothing else in this entire city could possibly be. All that it requires is a splash of gold chains here, a bell charm there, a pendant necklace in glittering gems so that she shines as bright as a sun over a field of desperate green grasses. A beacon. That's what he sister calls her.

Mosaic throws her arms around them both, and squeezes her eyes shut so that the tears can't poke through and ruin this moment. Whatever lead her here, however difficult the path has been... none of it has been a mistake. And what a blessing it is that these girls should be allowed to walk forward together.

"Now come on, you idiots. We spent all this time on me and there's still hardly anything properly picked out for the rest of you. I'm not the only one who should be exploring, here."