The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 8 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 9; Measurements
Elvina scowled at her reflection like it had personally insulted her.
“Do I look like someone who should be draped in lace?” she asked, voice dry as old parchment.
“You look like a knife wrapped in silk,” Tarasque offered, perched delicately on the measuring stool beside her, legs crossed at the ankle, hands in her lap like she wasn’t one twitch away from shrieking with ticklish terror. “A very pretty knife.”
“Wonderful,” Elvina muttered, rolling her eyes. “I’ve become a fashionably sheathed weapon. My ancestors would disown me.”
The tailor, Madame Serelise, who looked like she'd buried husbands for fabric money, swooped around them, armed with a measuring tape and the glint of bloodlust in her eyes.
“I do like a challenge,” she said, circling Elvina with the air of a hungry vulture. “Now, chest out. Posture. Breathe in, darling.”
Elvina bristled. “If I breathe in any harder I’ll rupture a lung.”
“Perfect. Hold it.”
Serelise pulled the tape taut around Elvina’s chest, muttering to herself as she jotted down numbers on a slate. Elvina winced as the tape hugged under her breasts a little too enthusiastically.
“Could you not grope the soul out of me?” she hissed.
“It’s called precision,” Serelise said cheerfully. “Now, hips. Spread them slightly.”
Elvina shot Tarasque a look. “If she asks me to bend over, I’m leaving.”
“Oh no,” Tarasque grinned, “I want to see what happens if she does.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Elvina accused.
Tarasque didn’t deny it. She squirmed slightly as Serelise advanced on her, measuring tape now freshly coiled like a constrictor.
“I’ve never worn a ballgown before,” she said. “I figured if I have to be touched by a stranger, at least let her be scary and judgmental.”
As Serelise gently wrapped the tape around Tarasque’s waist, the redhead flinched and stifled a squeak.
“Ticklish?” Elvina asked, lips twitching.
“Not, not really,” Tarasque lied, cheeks colouring.
“Mm-hm,” Elvina said, smugly.
“I swear, if you so much as poke my ribs—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Elvina murmured. “I’ll just wait till you’re wearing five layers of corset and then accidentally sneeze on you.”
“Ladies, stillness,” Serelise snapped, pulling the tape around Tarasque’s chest now. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Elvina raised a brow. “Pear-shaped, perky, and apparently lethal when tickled.”
Tarasque shot her a narrow-eyed look. “Yours are only bigger because you refuse to wear armor that fits.”
“Mine are bigger because I was blessed, thank you.”
Serelise sighed. “You both have lovely figures. And if you could stop flirting and start cooperating, I could be done in minutes instead of years.”
“We’re not flirting,” both women said at once.
Serelise rolled her eyes. “Darling, I’ve dressed assassins with less tension between them.”
“Can assassins get a discount?” Elvina asked. “Because if you make me wear petticoats, I will consider ending someone.”
Tarasque bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
After the final set of notes were scrawled, Serelise stood back with a hum of satisfaction. “Very well. One red gown, emerald embroidery. One black gown, crimson detailing. You’ll both look like sin at a funeral.”
Elvina groaned. “Perfect. I’ll be dressed like regret.”
“You’ll be dressed like danger,” Tarasque said, sliding off the stool. “The kind men write poetry about and women blame for things they secretly enjoyed.”
“Do you want me to punch you?” Elvina asked, grinning despite herself.
Tarasque leaned in, her voice low. “Only if you promise to make it look like foreplay.”
Serelise let out a long-suffering sigh. “Out. Both of you. Before I start stitching mouths shut instead of hems.”
As they exited, Elvina elbowed Tarasque in the ribs, gently. Just enough to make her yelp.
“I knew you were ticklish.”
“Traitor,” Tarasque hissed, rubbing her side.
Elvina smirked. “Revenge is best served in velvet.”
They’d just made it halfway down the hall—Elvina ready to sprint toward freedom, Tarasque strutting like she’d just won a duel—when a sharp voice echoed after them.
“Ladies. Back. In. Now.”
Elvina stopped mid-step. “No.”
Tarasque blinked. “She can’t mean—”
“I forgot one critical detail,” came the voice again, Madame Serelise, storming from the fitting room like a thundercloud in silk. “I need to retake the measurements. Skin to skin. No corsets, no tunics, no cheating fabric in the way.”
Elvina’s eye twitched. “So you want us naked.”
“I want you accurate,” Serelise snapped. “You’ll thank me when your gowns don’t collapse mid-waltz.”
Tarasque shrugged. “Well, I guess we’re doing this.”
Elvina growled under her breath. “If she tries to measure anything below the belt, I’m burning this whole place down.”
Back inside the chamber, behind a single privacy screen that felt more symbolic than useful, Elvina stripped with the enthusiasm of a condemned soldier cleaning their blade one last time. Tarasque peeled off her blouse slowly—too slowly, with the kind of deliberate grace that suggested she was already up to something.
Elvina caught the smirk and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”
“What?” Tarasque asked innocently. “Just trying to stay warm.”
“You’re planning something.”
Tarasque leaned in, voice a whisper only Elvina could hear. “Wager. First one to make Serelise drop her tape wins.”
Elvina’s eyes gleamed. “What’s the forfeit?”
“Loser wears whatever hideous backup dress she pulls from the dusty corner rack.”
“…You’re on.”
Serelise returned, expression stoic, as though she hadn’t been dragged back from the brink of retirement for this. She gestured sharply for Elvina to step forward.
As the tape slid across Elvina’s bare waist, Tarasque leaned against the wall, humming.
“Elvina,” she purred, “you know… if she doesn’t measure your bust properly, I could lend her both hands and a ruler.”
Elvina didn’t flinch. “Don’t tempt me. You’re just jealous mine don’t need magic to defy gravity.”
“Oh, darling. Gravity only has jurisdiction over real breasts. Mine are works of art.”
Serelise grunted, tightening the tape as if to punish the comment.
Elvina raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not a bard? Because you’re singing the praises of your chest like it’s about to go on tour.”
Tarasque grinned. “Well, unlike yours, mine don’t bite people who try to touch them.”
“That depends who’s touching,” Elvina said with a smirk. “Most people just don’t survive the attempt.”
Serelise sighed. “Can you two focus?”
Tarasque stepped forward, arms elegantly folded behind her back. “Absolutely. Full attention on you, Madame. Please, do take my measurements. I promise not to flinch unless you—ah!”
The tailor had just touched her side.
“Ticklish?” Elvina asked with all the sweetness of poison in tea.
“I swear to every moon goddess, if you breathe on me while she’s holding scissors, I will bite your ear.”
“Elvina!” Serelise barked. “Arms out!”
Elvina obeyed, not without a smirk. “Careful, madame. She bites when flustered.”
Serelise muttered under her breath in a language Elvina was certain wasn’t Elvish.
Then Tarasque, smiling with weaponized innocence, added, “Would it help if I bent over slightly when you measure my lower back? I find the curve of my spine really reveals itself when I’m…flexing.”
Serelise fumbled the chalk. Dropped it. Swore violently.
Elvina snorted. “She wins.”
“No, no,” Tarasque said sweetly, brushing her curls back. “We go double or nothing. Next one to make her storm out of the room wins.”
“Elves,” Serelise snapped, standing straight and red-faced. “Dwarves. I’ve dressed kings. I will not be undone by horny knife-ear chaos in human form!”
Elvina blinked. “Well. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me.”
Tarasque beamed. “Can that go on the invitation card?”
Serelise threw down her measuring tape.
“Out. Out before I turn you both into upholstery.”
As they fled, half-dressed, laughing like teenagers with stolen liquor, Elvina elbowed Tarasque lightly.
“We tied.”
“I suppose we’ll both suffer the dusty backup rack,” Tarasque sighed dramatically.
Elvina grinned. “Or just suffer each other.”
Just when they thought they were free, the sharp click of heeled boots and an exasperated sigh signaled their doom.
“Back. In. Now,” Madame Serelise called, arms crossed and jaw clenched.
Elvina groaned. “Did the gods curse you with a measuring fetish?”
Serelise’s lips thinned. “You were both… tensing. It skewed the numbers. I need proper baselines. No fabric this time. At all.”
Tarasque blinked. “Wait. Completely—?”
“Yes. Completely.”
Elvina turned slowly. “Are you measuring us or commissioning a nude statue?”
“You want your gowns to fit or not?”
Tarasque shrugged off her cloak, already grinning. “Well, if we’re stripping, I’m making it entertaining.”
Elvina narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to flirt with her, aren’t you?”
Tarasque’s smirk deepened. “Flirt? No. I’m going to narrate.”
Back in the fitting room, now somehow even colder and more awkward than before, their clothes hit the floor one piece at a time. Elvina stood like a monument to barely restrained fury. Tarasque posed like she was auditioning for a scandal.
“Stand straight,” Serelise barked. “And keep your arms down unless I ask.”
“Oh, I always ask first,” Tarasque said, glancing at Elvina with faux innocence. “Consent is key when hands are going around delicate areas.”
Elvina deadpanned, “Just wait until she starts measuring inseams. That’s where the real intimacy begins.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Tarasque purred. “I’ve been told I’m an excellent distraction during precise handwork.”
Serelise let out a low growl and snapped the measuring tape between her hands like a whip. “One more word and I’m fitting you both in sackcloth.”
“Promise?” Elvina said with a wicked grin. “Rough texture. Very disciplinary.”
Tarasque gasped dramatically. “Elvina! Are you into sackcloth?”
“I’m into getting this over with,” Elvina muttered, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a smile.
Serelise moved to measure Tarasque’s hips.
Tarasque sighed deeply. “Ah yes, my most controversial curve. Gets me in trouble at borders and bedrooms.”
“I swear on my grandmother’s shears—” Serelise hissed.
“Easy, tailor,” Elvina said. “You’re looking a little flushed. Do you need to sit down?”
“No, she’s just unused to this much thigh and sarcasm in one room,” Tarasque said sweetly, as Serelise tried and failed to maintain her focus.
“Turn around,” the tailor muttered.
“Oh my,” Tarasque said, obeying. “Usually people buy me dinner before making demands like that.”
“Does this count as our third date?” Elvina asked dryly, lifting her arms. “Because I think that legally entitles me to disappointment and red wine.”
Serelise nearly dropped her chalk. “I am begging the gods for lightning.”
“I’d settle for her measuring something right the first time,” Elvina added, not unkindly.
Tarasque raised an eyebrow. “You saying my bust doesn’t defy geometry?”
“I’m saying it causes civil unrest.”
At that, the tailor made a noise between a scream and a whimper, snatched up her tape and chalk, and stormed from the room.
“Five minutes,” she shouted from the hall. “Get dressed or stay naked—I do not care!”
Silence followed. Then Tarasque burst out laughing.
Elvina snorted. “Congratulations. I think we’ve broken her.”
“Think she’ll still do the gowns?”
“She’ll do them just so she never has to measure us again.”
Tarasque winked. “So… you win this round?”
“I win every round,” Elvina said, pulling on her tunic. “But you’re getting fitted for sackcloth just in case.”
Chapter 9; Measurements
Elvina scowled at her reflection like it had personally insulted her.
“Do I look like someone who should be draped in lace?” she asked, voice dry as old parchment.
“You look like a knife wrapped in silk,” Tarasque offered, perched delicately on the measuring stool beside her, legs crossed at the ankle, hands in her lap like she wasn’t one twitch away from shrieking with ticklish terror. “A very pretty knife.”
“Wonderful,” Elvina muttered, rolling her eyes. “I’ve become a fashionably sheathed weapon. My ancestors would disown me.”
The tailor, Madame Serelise, who looked like she'd buried husbands for fabric money, swooped around them, armed with a measuring tape and the glint of bloodlust in her eyes.
“I do like a challenge,” she said, circling Elvina with the air of a hungry vulture. “Now, chest out. Posture. Breathe in, darling.”
Elvina bristled. “If I breathe in any harder I’ll rupture a lung.”
“Perfect. Hold it.”
Serelise pulled the tape taut around Elvina’s chest, muttering to herself as she jotted down numbers on a slate. Elvina winced as the tape hugged under her breasts a little too enthusiastically.
“Could you not grope the soul out of me?” she hissed.
“It’s called precision,” Serelise said cheerfully. “Now, hips. Spread them slightly.”
Elvina shot Tarasque a look. “If she asks me to bend over, I’m leaving.”
“Oh no,” Tarasque grinned, “I want to see what happens if she does.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Elvina accused.
Tarasque didn’t deny it. She squirmed slightly as Serelise advanced on her, measuring tape now freshly coiled like a constrictor.
“I’ve never worn a ballgown before,” she said. “I figured if I have to be touched by a stranger, at least let her be scary and judgmental.”
As Serelise gently wrapped the tape around Tarasque’s waist, the redhead flinched and stifled a squeak.
“Ticklish?” Elvina asked, lips twitching.
“Not, not really,” Tarasque lied, cheeks colouring.
“Mm-hm,” Elvina said, smugly.
“I swear, if you so much as poke my ribs—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Elvina murmured. “I’ll just wait till you’re wearing five layers of corset and then accidentally sneeze on you.”
“Ladies, stillness,” Serelise snapped, pulling the tape around Tarasque’s chest now. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Elvina raised a brow. “Pear-shaped, perky, and apparently lethal when tickled.”
Tarasque shot her a narrow-eyed look. “Yours are only bigger because you refuse to wear armor that fits.”
“Mine are bigger because I was blessed, thank you.”
Serelise sighed. “You both have lovely figures. And if you could stop flirting and start cooperating, I could be done in minutes instead of years.”
“We’re not flirting,” both women said at once.
Serelise rolled her eyes. “Darling, I’ve dressed assassins with less tension between them.”
“Can assassins get a discount?” Elvina asked. “Because if you make me wear petticoats, I will consider ending someone.”
Tarasque bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
After the final set of notes were scrawled, Serelise stood back with a hum of satisfaction. “Very well. One red gown, emerald embroidery. One black gown, crimson detailing. You’ll both look like sin at a funeral.”
Elvina groaned. “Perfect. I’ll be dressed like regret.”
“You’ll be dressed like danger,” Tarasque said, sliding off the stool. “The kind men write poetry about and women blame for things they secretly enjoyed.”
“Do you want me to punch you?” Elvina asked, grinning despite herself.
Tarasque leaned in, her voice low. “Only if you promise to make it look like foreplay.”
Serelise let out a long-suffering sigh. “Out. Both of you. Before I start stitching mouths shut instead of hems.”
As they exited, Elvina elbowed Tarasque in the ribs, gently. Just enough to make her yelp.
“I knew you were ticklish.”
“Traitor,” Tarasque hissed, rubbing her side.
Elvina smirked. “Revenge is best served in velvet.”
They’d just made it halfway down the hall—Elvina ready to sprint toward freedom, Tarasque strutting like she’d just won a duel—when a sharp voice echoed after them.
“Ladies. Back. In. Now.”
Elvina stopped mid-step. “No.”
Tarasque blinked. “She can’t mean—”
“I forgot one critical detail,” came the voice again, Madame Serelise, storming from the fitting room like a thundercloud in silk. “I need to retake the measurements. Skin to skin. No corsets, no tunics, no cheating fabric in the way.”
Elvina’s eye twitched. “So you want us naked.”
“I want you accurate,” Serelise snapped. “You’ll thank me when your gowns don’t collapse mid-waltz.”
Tarasque shrugged. “Well, I guess we’re doing this.”
Elvina growled under her breath. “If she tries to measure anything below the belt, I’m burning this whole place down.”
Back inside the chamber, behind a single privacy screen that felt more symbolic than useful, Elvina stripped with the enthusiasm of a condemned soldier cleaning their blade one last time. Tarasque peeled off her blouse slowly—too slowly, with the kind of deliberate grace that suggested she was already up to something.
Elvina caught the smirk and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”
“What?” Tarasque asked innocently. “Just trying to stay warm.”
“You’re planning something.”
Tarasque leaned in, voice a whisper only Elvina could hear. “Wager. First one to make Serelise drop her tape wins.”
Elvina’s eyes gleamed. “What’s the forfeit?”
“Loser wears whatever hideous backup dress she pulls from the dusty corner rack.”
“…You’re on.”
Serelise returned, expression stoic, as though she hadn’t been dragged back from the brink of retirement for this. She gestured sharply for Elvina to step forward.
As the tape slid across Elvina’s bare waist, Tarasque leaned against the wall, humming.
“Elvina,” she purred, “you know… if she doesn’t measure your bust properly, I could lend her both hands and a ruler.”
Elvina didn’t flinch. “Don’t tempt me. You’re just jealous mine don’t need magic to defy gravity.”
“Oh, darling. Gravity only has jurisdiction over real breasts. Mine are works of art.”
Serelise grunted, tightening the tape as if to punish the comment.
Elvina raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not a bard? Because you’re singing the praises of your chest like it’s about to go on tour.”
Tarasque grinned. “Well, unlike yours, mine don’t bite people who try to touch them.”
“That depends who’s touching,” Elvina said with a smirk. “Most people just don’t survive the attempt.”
Serelise sighed. “Can you two focus?”
Tarasque stepped forward, arms elegantly folded behind her back. “Absolutely. Full attention on you, Madame. Please, do take my measurements. I promise not to flinch unless you—ah!”
The tailor had just touched her side.
“Ticklish?” Elvina asked with all the sweetness of poison in tea.
“I swear to every moon goddess, if you breathe on me while she’s holding scissors, I will bite your ear.”
“Elvina!” Serelise barked. “Arms out!”
Elvina obeyed, not without a smirk. “Careful, madame. She bites when flustered.”
Serelise muttered under her breath in a language Elvina was certain wasn’t Elvish.
Then Tarasque, smiling with weaponized innocence, added, “Would it help if I bent over slightly when you measure my lower back? I find the curve of my spine really reveals itself when I’m…flexing.”
Serelise fumbled the chalk. Dropped it. Swore violently.
Elvina snorted. “She wins.”
“No, no,” Tarasque said sweetly, brushing her curls back. “We go double or nothing. Next one to make her storm out of the room wins.”
“Elves,” Serelise snapped, standing straight and red-faced. “Dwarves. I’ve dressed kings. I will not be undone by horny knife-ear chaos in human form!”
Elvina blinked. “Well. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me.”
Tarasque beamed. “Can that go on the invitation card?”
Serelise threw down her measuring tape.
“Out. Out before I turn you both into upholstery.”
As they fled, half-dressed, laughing like teenagers with stolen liquor, Elvina elbowed Tarasque lightly.
“We tied.”
“I suppose we’ll both suffer the dusty backup rack,” Tarasque sighed dramatically.
Elvina grinned. “Or just suffer each other.”
Just when they thought they were free, the sharp click of heeled boots and an exasperated sigh signaled their doom.
“Back. In. Now,” Madame Serelise called, arms crossed and jaw clenched.
Elvina groaned. “Did the gods curse you with a measuring fetish?”
Serelise’s lips thinned. “You were both… tensing. It skewed the numbers. I need proper baselines. No fabric this time. At all.”
Tarasque blinked. “Wait. Completely—?”
“Yes. Completely.”
Elvina turned slowly. “Are you measuring us or commissioning a nude statue?”
“You want your gowns to fit or not?”
Tarasque shrugged off her cloak, already grinning. “Well, if we’re stripping, I’m making it entertaining.”
Elvina narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to flirt with her, aren’t you?”
Tarasque’s smirk deepened. “Flirt? No. I’m going to narrate.”
Back in the fitting room, now somehow even colder and more awkward than before, their clothes hit the floor one piece at a time. Elvina stood like a monument to barely restrained fury. Tarasque posed like she was auditioning for a scandal.
“Stand straight,” Serelise barked. “And keep your arms down unless I ask.”
“Oh, I always ask first,” Tarasque said, glancing at Elvina with faux innocence. “Consent is key when hands are going around delicate areas.”
Elvina deadpanned, “Just wait until she starts measuring inseams. That’s where the real intimacy begins.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Tarasque purred. “I’ve been told I’m an excellent distraction during precise handwork.”
Serelise let out a low growl and snapped the measuring tape between her hands like a whip. “One more word and I’m fitting you both in sackcloth.”
“Promise?” Elvina said with a wicked grin. “Rough texture. Very disciplinary.”
Tarasque gasped dramatically. “Elvina! Are you into sackcloth?”
“I’m into getting this over with,” Elvina muttered, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a smile.
Serelise moved to measure Tarasque’s hips.
Tarasque sighed deeply. “Ah yes, my most controversial curve. Gets me in trouble at borders and bedrooms.”
“I swear on my grandmother’s shears—” Serelise hissed.
“Easy, tailor,” Elvina said. “You’re looking a little flushed. Do you need to sit down?”
“No, she’s just unused to this much thigh and sarcasm in one room,” Tarasque said sweetly, as Serelise tried and failed to maintain her focus.
“Turn around,” the tailor muttered.
“Oh my,” Tarasque said, obeying. “Usually people buy me dinner before making demands like that.”
“Does this count as our third date?” Elvina asked dryly, lifting her arms. “Because I think that legally entitles me to disappointment and red wine.”
Serelise nearly dropped her chalk. “I am begging the gods for lightning.”
“I’d settle for her measuring something right the first time,” Elvina added, not unkindly.
Tarasque raised an eyebrow. “You saying my bust doesn’t defy geometry?”
“I’m saying it causes civil unrest.”
At that, the tailor made a noise between a scream and a whimper, snatched up her tape and chalk, and stormed from the room.
“Five minutes,” she shouted from the hall. “Get dressed or stay naked—I do not care!”
Silence followed. Then Tarasque burst out laughing.
Elvina snorted. “Congratulations. I think we’ve broken her.”
“Think she’ll still do the gowns?”
“She’ll do them just so she never has to measure us again.”
Tarasque winked. “So… you win this round?”
“I win every round,” Elvina said, pulling on her tunic. “But you’re getting fitted for sackcloth just in case.”
