I’m standing in the middle of our pathetic little camp, stark naked, dust on my ankles, hair all over the place, rummaging through the leather sack of “fancy” clothes I’ve acquired recently. Acquired aning paid for,stole, or politely liberated from an inattentive laundry line. Don’t judge.
“Dragon,” I say, hip cocked, moon rising behind like a smug witness, “pass that lavender pin dress.”
Behind I hear a long, theatrical exhale—the sound of a thousand-year-old creature preparing to correct again.
“Peplos, Saya.”
“Yes. Platypus. That one.”
“Pe—plos.”
“Peep-dress, yes,” I say, wiggling my fingers impatiently. “The one you fasten with brooches and that flies straight off your tits if you forget the belt. That one.”
He mutters sothing about vocabulary being a dying art, but he nudges the folded lavender fabric toward with the tip of a talon anyway. Very delicately. As if even my clothes are fragile tragedies.
I grab it before he starts giving so lecture about “correct drapery practice,” and shake it out. The dusk light catches on the little bronze brooches—I stole those from a rchant’s wife who was too busy flirting with a sailor to watch her jewelry. Her loss, my nipples’ gain.
I drape the cloth around myself, fumbling with the fold, trying to make it look like the glamorous temple-statue version rather than the “slightly confused street whore in curtains” version I usually end up with.
Dragon sighs. Loudly.
“Your belt is upside-down.”
“It’s a rope,” I say. “There is no upside-down.”
“There always is with you.”
I snap the brooch on one shoulder, then the other. The fabric swishes around my hips, soft as sin. I strike a little pose because why not—if the gods gave anything useful in life, it wasn’t literacy.
“Alright,” I say, tying the belt tight, “town’s inn it is.”
Dragon lifts his massive head. “You plan to infiltrate it.”
“Yes.” I smooth the cloth over my hip. “Infiltration. Subterfuge. Seduction. Maybe so light theft. The classics.”
“You’ll be naked within an hour.”
“Please,” I scoff. “Half an hour, tops.”
He closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience he doesn’t have.
Dusk settles around us: warm, dusty, violet at the edges. My lavender platypus-dress flutters in the breeze like it’s reconsidering its life choices. I give the Dragon a wink, adjust the brooch on my shoulder, and start toward the faint glow of the town’s lanterns.
“Try not to burn anything while I’m gone,” I call back.
“I make no promises,” he grumbles.
Good. Neither do I.
He closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience he absolutely does not possess.
Typical.
I stare down at myself. The lavender peep-dress—platypus—whatever—suddenly feels wrong. Too stiff. Too “I’m a respectable woman, please rob gently.” Ugh. No.
“Dragon,” I say, flicking one brooch open with a snap, “give that wrap thingie. The saffron one.”
Without opening his eyes, he answers, “Himation.”
“Yes. Hemato. The big scarf. The tablecloth. The wrap thing. That one.”
His eyelids twitch like he’s fighting the urge to immolate for linguistic cris, but he reaches into the sack with a talon and drags out the bright saffron cloth—my favorite. It looks like stolen sunshine, and it cost absolutely nothing except a kiss and a distracting hip sway.
I yank the lavender peep-plop off over my head, toss it onto a log, then unfurl the saffron hima-thing. The evening breeze hits my bare skin, cool and smug. Dragon pointedly looks anywhere but at , which is adorable considering he’s seen naked more often than he’s seen his own reflection.
“Honestly,” I mutter as I loop the cloth around my torso, “this is just a giant scarf. I don’t know why you need a whole word for it.”
“It is not a scarf,” he groans, “it is a—”
“Hematoe,” I finish, adjusting the drape so one bare shoulder pokes out. Perfect. Sultry but deceptively modest. The exact outfit for an inn infiltration where you need n to underestimate you, won to trust you, and the barkeep to give you credit for drinks you never intend to pay for.
Dragon finally opens an eye. It roams up and down my silhouette, exasperated but resigned. “The left corner is backwards,” he murmurs.
“It’s fashion,” I say, twisting it a bit more just to annoy him. The saffron folds cling in all the right places, ripple in all the wrong ones. One tug and the whole thing will fall off. Perfect.
“You’re going to flash the entire town,” he says.
“I’ll only flash the important people.”
He presses his snout into the dirt like he’s begging the earth to swallow him. “Why do I bother?”
“Because you love ,” I sing, stepping close enough to bop his snout with my fingertip. “Also because I bring back gold and gossip.”
“And trouble.”
“Well, yes. But that cos free with the package.”
I spin once, letting the saffron wrap flare dramatically, my bare shoulder catching the last sar of dusk like it owes money. The cloth settles around my hips with a soft whisper—half seduction, half warning label.
I crouch beside my little wooden jewelry box—well, “box” is generous; it’s a lacquered trinket container I “rescued” from a rchant’s caravan when he wasn’t looking. The hinges are cracked, but it still opens with a satisfying clack.
Inside: chaos.
Bronze bangles I won in a drinking contest. Rings stolen off a sleeping bard. Toe cuffs traded for a kiss I definitely did not an. A chipped anklet that once belonged to a woman whose na I’ve forgotten but whose moaning I vividly rember.
I sift through them, letting the tal jingle like tiny heralds of poor decisions.
“Let’s see… bracelets, bracelets… ah! The ones with the little bells.” I slide them over my wrists, shake them once. They tinkle like a mischievous warning to anyone within earshot: Brace yourselves.
Dragon groans.
I ignore him and move on to finger rings—thin bronze, thick silver, filigree, simple loops. I slide three onto my right hand, two onto my left, then stick a few onto my toes. My toes deserve luxury. They work hard.
“You know,” I say, admiring my reflection in the smooth side of a copper cup, “when I was a kid, my entire wardrobe was one piece of linen cloth.”
Dragon, behind , grunts skeptically. I continue anyway.
“Seriously. One rectangle. You wrap it under one arm, tie it over the other shoulder, hope the wind’s in a good mood, and boom—fashion.”
I find the rope belt I once used as a garter and toss it aside.
“And if you were feeling fancy—very fancy—you tied it with a rope,” I say, dropping a ring onto my toe and wiggling it into place. “That was it. My whole childhood couture.”
I look down at myself now—saffron wrap, glittering wrists, sparkling toes—and grin.
From one rag to this disaster of beauty.
I snap the jewelry box shut.
All the kids dressed like that, you know,” I say, shaking my anklet until it jingles like a cheap brothel curtain. “Boys, girls—didn’t matter. One scrap of linen, one knot, one prayer the wind didn’t yank it off while you were climbing a canal railing. That was childhood.”
Dragon makes a low sound, halfway between pity and exasperation. I pretend not to hear it.
I slip on another ring—thin, bronze, dented. Probably bitten at so point. By or soone else, unclear.
“Fancy stuff?” I snort. “The only ti I ever got anything nicer was when the magistrate sent to that godsdamn temple.” I tug the saffron wrap a little lower on my hip, rembering the scratchy ceremonial fabric, the incense that always slled like lies.
“It was all borrowed temple crap,” I go on. “Not mine. They doll you up before they rent you out—pretty silks, shiny bangles, flowers that bruise your hair, holy ribbons tied so tight you can’t breathe unless you fake fainting.”
I roll my eyes so hard the saffron cloth shifts on my shoulder.
“Dress you like a goddess just to make you feel like property.”
I wiggle my toes, admire the little rings gleaming around them. These are mine. Stolen, yes, but earned.
I snap another bracelet into place and inhale. The past slls a lot better now.
And tonight?
I plan to sll like trouble, not temples.
I reach into the sack one last ti and pull out my fancy slippers—thin leather, soft as sin, dyed the color of overripe figs, with little golden stitching that serves no purpose except to announce I stole these from soone wealthier than .
I slip my feet into them, flex my toes, admire how the toe rings sparkle against the leather.
Behind , Dragon finally lifts his massive, judgnt-loaded head.
“Are you,” he says slowly, “planning to walk to town in those?”
I look up at him, grin wide enough to show teeth, and nod.
He stares at the slippers again. At the rocky ground. At .
“You will ruin them within fifty steps.”
I wiggle my toes. The bells on my ankle jingle their agreent.
“That,” I say, tying the saffron wrap a little tighter around my chest, “is a problem for Future Saya.”
He groans like an avalanche of disappointnt.
I grin even harder.
“Current Saya looks fabulous.”
User Comments
0 comments from readers