He wasn’t even certain why the devil he was in the market for a new waistcoat all of a sudden.
Certainly it had nothing to do with yesterday’s chance encounter with a lad who had turned out to be female. He shook his head.
He’d had a long talk with his employees about checking twice before leaving to ensure all doors and windows were locked. There would be no more surprise visits from eccentric young women. No matter how intriguing she might be. They were now unlikely to cross paths again.
For now, all that mattered was the Cloven Hoof. Once he owned the property, he would be beholden to no one but himself, and finally in a position to consider new changes in other aspects of his life.
Until then, he would focus the entirety of his concentration on acquiring the deed.
“May I help you?” asked the shopkeeper.
The deed, and perhaps a new waistcoat.
Max glared at the endless rows of expensive cloth winding through the haberdashery like a blindingly gaudy serpent.
All of the jackets and trousers in his armoire were the same color: coal black. His shirts and cravats, white. His waistcoats, silver or gray. Practical, predictable, easy. Why turn the simple task of dressing oneself into some sort of stressful, nerve-wracking gauntlet?
“Are you searching for anything in particular?” the shopkeeper tried again.
Max frowned.Washe searching for something in particular? And if so, was the item he was searching for something that could be procured by way of a St. James haberdasher?
“I need a new waistcoat,” he announced. “Something fashionable.”
The shopkeeper brightened. “We’ve just received a new silk in the most dashing shade of puce—”
“No puce.”
“Perhaps a brighter shade? More of a mauve or a vermilion?”
“No.”
“Yes, I see. Let’s stay out of the reds, shall we? Over this way, we have a stunning turquoise and chartreuse blend—”
Before Max could open his mouth, the shopkeeper had already changed course.
“You’re absolutely right. With your… unique demeanor, you wouldn’t require loud colors to stand out from the crowd. Although you may find our selection of browns and grays here in the back to be significantly smaller in number, I assure you these selections are every bit as rich and tasteful as their colorful counterparts.”
Max sighed. Had he really come all this way to purchase an item of clothing completely indistinguishable from every other waistcoat in his wardrobe?
“Do you have… less colorful colors?” he asked hopefully.
“Of course,” gushed the shopkeeper without so much as blinking. He made an abrupt turn down the labyrinthine path and motioned for Max to follow. “A man like you naturally finds brown far too boring and chartreuse much too bright. Your particular coloring is best suited for jewel tones.”
Max followed skeptically.
With a flourish, the shopkeeper unveiled two hidden reams of fabric.
“Some customers feel the deep tones on the left too dark to be sapphire. The menacing blue of midnight, not midsummer. Its warring hues evoke storm clouds over the ocean, shadows beneath the sea. You seem the sort of man who would embody such a shade, rather than be overpowered by it.”
Max stepped forward, intrigued despite himself.
“The other option is what’s meant to be an emerald of royalty, of princes and kings, but as you can see, its complex character goes even further. This green is a dragon’s underbelly, powerful and vulnerable. The green of battlefields, not lucky clovers. A jade that wars would be waged over. The color of—”
“I’ll take both,” Max interrupted decisively.
He was fairly certain the shopkeeper invented his descriptions out of whole cloth depending on the client in question, but such clever improvisation only cemented Max’s respect further. Reading other people despite their best efforts to keep their thoughts private was a skill Max himself practiced every day.
And the shopkeeper was right. Max was not the sort of gentleman who desired to stand out in lime greens and spangled blues. His puppet-mastery was orchestrated from the shadows.
