Dague was waiting outside, hand on her hip, foot tapping with anticipation. When Quinn emerged, however, she did not explode with screams of wonder or applause, nor did she bounce with delight or faint from joy. Instead, her tight-lipped smile widened just a bit, her eyebrows raised ever so slightly, and she let out a satisfied breath through her nose. 

“Hm,” she said simply, and for a moment left it at that. Her eyes scanned Quinn’s form, traced the designs and how they wrapped around her, how the hem was high enough not to drag on the ground. She came over and adjusted her braid, then stepped back and appraised her again. 

Only, it wasn’t just her she was judging. It was the dress, too. The craftsmanship. If it didn’t look good, who was that more of an indictment on? For someone of Madam Dague’s history, there could only ever be one to blame: herself. 

Thankfully, however.

“Yes,” she finally said, and her smile grew just a bit more. “Yes, I believe you look quite wonderful. I would frame this moment, but I think you’ll do quite enough marketing for me, looking like that.”

She snapped her fingers, and the clerk poked her head out from the front. “Madam?”

“Ring it up. I don’t think there’s a force on Illun that could stop either of us from ensuring she leaves with that dress.”