The [i]Miséricorde[/i] was a smaller boutique compared to some of the other stores on the Ange, but up here, real estate was at a premium. For a clothing store to secure a spot, it would need fame equal to its quality. Though Quinn might not have had the experience to know better, from the price tags to the décor, to say nothing of the dresses themselves, it would have been a safe assumption to say this place had both. 

The aisles she navigated were narrow and relegated to the corner of the left side. These prices were less egregious, but the clothes themselves hardly seemed any cheaper in make. They were, however, denoted as last-season. The dresses adorning mannequins or hung behind glass displays were marked as current, and some were easily triple the price of those on the rack. 

The clerk didn’t notice Quinn at first, being so consumed in her tidying. She was younger, dressed fashionably but not in a recent piece. She didn’t react at first, so focused on adjusting the dress that her tongue stuck out of her mouth. When that was done, she stood upright. 

“Consultations need to be booked in advance,” she began, only just prying her eyes away to look at her. “But we offer a surcharge on all—[i]uhhhhhhhhhh[/i]…”

She stared at Quinn like that, slack jawed and droning, for more than a few moments, before finding the mental wherewithal to close her mouth and swallow her shock. She made to speak once, stopped, then tried again, stopped, and finally said; “One moment, miss,” before breaking into a sprint behind the counter, vanishing into the backrooms of the store.


There was barely-muted and urgent whispering, followed by a full on shout of “[i]WHAT?[/i]” before, moments later, a new figure emerged into the front.

She was an older woman, whose hair was fluffed up and styled high, a tide of gray rising on oaken shores. She herself wore a dress that might have been plucked right off the display, an absolutely radioactive pink number melded with highlights of cream and navy blue. It bulbed at the shoulders, beneath which she wore white arm covers bearing a golden floral filigree pattern that wound down all the way around her fingers. Sharp green eyes beneath long lashes, over a pointed nose and cherry-lipstick pulled into a petite smile. She studied Quinn like one of the dresses on the wall. 

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” she said, the Casobani formality in her voice strained with excitement. “The Runan hero, in my shop.”

She approached with a gait so perfect her head stayed level, then bowed in a perfect curtsy before offering out her hand. “Madam Dague. I’m told, Miss Loughvein, that you would like a dress.”

Dague gave a proud flourish towards her wall, and with a gentle but unyielding hand, brought Quinn with her. “Then let us not waste time. We must start with taste, [i]oui[/i]? Be broad, if you must. What designs, what colors, what styles—what strikes the eye of a pilot?”