@dangerousallies
One aspect of being alive and having physical form that Jessamine had forgotten entirely about in her long confinement is the frequent need for fresh clothing. When she had dressed herself that morning, so long ago, she'd had no forwarning that the outfit she'd chosen would follow her beyond death, into what came after even the afterlife. There is nothing wrong, per se, with the clothes themselves, but nothing in the wardrobe in her assigned room feels quite... right. Not laundered properly. Too soft. Too... too vulnerable.
And her clothes from home are certainly not impervious to dirt.
She starts close to her quarters- she has been to the station already and noticed the shops lining the streets approaching it. The clothing in the first few shops is... outlandish at best, hems too high and sleeves cropped short, no structure at all to the fabrics used. The High Overseer would likely have a conniption, she thinks with distant anusement, to see someone dressed so outside of the time of the Fugue Feast. He is not, of course, here, but the idea fills her with both a fierce pleasure and a hot, squirming shame regardless.
The shame (and simple prudence), as it always has, wins out.
The shop she finally finds something even passingly suitable at is also odd. It's late afternoon, with the way her attention wanders so easily now drawing the endeavor out far longer than she had intended, and the sun catches sharp on the glass of the long windows in front of the shop, drawing her eye. The majority of the clothing is comprised of frills and lace and dark scalloped edges. Girlish, if girlishness were dark and dismal. Still, there is a display in the lonely corner that draws her in, makes her step inside the shop. She allows the shopkeep to press the outfit into her hands and usher her into a dressing chamber. She may as well.
The bodice is comfortingly stiff, forcing her spine straight and corralling her unruly curves into cleaner, simpler lines. It's rather military in nature, from the squared shoulders to the double row of shining brass buttons, securing dark fabric over the meeting of each side from where the collar touches high on her throat down to where the seam mimics a hem low on her hips. The sleeves come to a sharp point over the backs of her hands, and the skirts fall loose and swirling from her hips to the floor, shushing softly when she shifts. It is a beautiful piece and wholly appropriate, but when she steps out to view herself in the hall mirror, it feels... off.
She looks like one of her old governesses, stern and cold.
Almost absently, her fingers rise to pluck the pins from her hair, sending it into a loose cascade of dense, dark waves down her back. It softens her face, curling over her shoulders and around her chin, shining against the matte fabric, but... She feels lost, looking in the mirror. She looks lost.
Is that her face? Is this what she looks like?
She turns to return to the dressing room, and pulls up short before she finds herself blundering her way into another person. Her eyes miss their face entirely though as she takes a step back, fingers pressing to her stomach now, unsettled. "Pardon me," she says, quiet, distant.
