When you befriend her, she literally sends you free clothes in the mail, with cute notes like:Is this bad for business? Maybe. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how your eyes match this new fabric I got in perfectly.
It’s hard to navigate off-script Ines.
Especially when she doesn’t seem to be pro personal space.
“Okay!” She steps away from me while rolling up her sewing tape. Dropping it into a pocket that fits the roll perfectly, she plops herself down on the couch beside Samson, grabs a thick book she brought with her, and flips to a page. “Something like this?” she asks, before I can ease myself close enough to see what they’re looking at.
Samson tenses, grumbling, “Nes.”
“Whaaat?” She flicks to a different page, purple nails catching sunlight. “I’m nosy. Can’t blame me for it. Occupational hazard. I see everyone’s underwear.”
I flinch.Pleasetell me she didn’t just show him designs for lingerie or something.
Do I want Samson to think of me as a woman?
Sure.
Do I want the poor boy forced to picture me in my drawers?
No.
Wait…
Yeah. No.No. Big no. Not yet, anyway.Right now it is a big red neon N.O.
Cautious, I slip myself into the seat beside Ines and peek in at her book. Swatches of fabric scatter among designs sewn directly into the page, each adorned with scraps of lace and ribbon.
It’s beautiful chaos, and I’m enraptured.
“This?” she asks, stabbing her purple nail against a swathe of pink silk. “In this style?” she flips ahead and presents a delicate dress with a waterfall skirt and a sweetheart neckline.
It’s gorgeous.
But not exactly practical for working a farm or murdering things in the mines.
“Pink Lemonade,” Samson murmurs before I can ask where the work clothes are.
Heat erupts in my cheeks.
“The shade is perfect to complement your skin and hair,” Ines chatters. “We don’t want to wash you out. Blues are also an option.” She puffs a laugh. “Well,anycolor is an option, really. It’s just a matter of which shade fits you.”
Samson stops her frantic spiel and page flipping on a design that looks like it was made for a fairy. Lavish, the gown is layered to the ankles and adorned with lace and satin all the way up to a high neckline. The sheer, flowing sleeves remind me of Aurelia’s wholly feminine and ethereal clothing style.
Yet again, however, a gown is not a work dress.
Ines chuckles deeply, nudging Samson in the arm. “Ohh? You likethatone, do ya? Want it in pink?”
Emotionally, I am not prepared for Samson’s nod, so I blurt, “Um! I-I need work clothes, don’t I? I’m a farmer. I have a—” I swallow, panicked. “—a lot of land to clear and till and plant? These dresses don’t seem conducive to the plot?”
Ines peers at me, or through me, orintome with her purple-tinted eyes rimmed in thick mascara. After I am completelyunsettled, she allows a feline grin to overtake her perfectly-painted lips. “Right-o, work clothes.” She flips nimbly to a more practical section of her book, with thicker fabric sewn into the pages. Jean and khaki and cotton cover designs for shirts and pants and overalls.
“Cute,” Samson murmurs at a pair of overalls with a sunflower pocket over the chest. Tapping a finger to it, he says, “Can that be a lemon?”
“You bet.”
“And can this be a skirt?”
Ines giggles, maniacal. “How short we talking, Sammy?”
