The idea started outside a narrow little shop in London, tucked between a tobacconist and a pub with flower boxes under the windows. Matt, John, Don, and Mason had been wandering the city all afternoon, four American college students on spring break, taking the usual photos but wanting something more memorable than another selfie by a red phone box.
John was the one who spotted the brass-lettered sign: Mercer & Quill — Fine Costumes for Gentlemen. “Fancy British clothes,” he said, pointing to the door with a grin. “We buy the outfits, take some ridiculous photos, and look like we belong here.” The others laughed, but a minute later they were stepping inside, into the smell of cedar, wool, polished wood, and old pipe smoke.
The proprietor of Mercer & Quill was not at all what the four friends expected. He was a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a dark waistcoat with round spectacles and an expression of quiet amusement, as though young Americans wandering into his shop in search of bespoke photographs was something he had seen many times before.
He listened patiently as John explained their plan, nodding politely while Matt joked about looking like members of Parliament and Mason wondered aloud whether anyone still wore pocket watches. The old man simply smiled. “Gentlemen,” he said warmly, “if one is to dress the part, one ought to do it properly.” Without asking their measurements, he disappeared among the shelves and racks, returning with four carefully chosen ensembles. To each suit he added little details - a pipe here, a waistcoat there, a particular tie or collar - handling every item with the care of a museum curator presenting treasures.
Before any of them could compare outfits, the proprietor gently ushered them toward separate changing rooms lining the paneled corridor. “Best to try them on individually,” he advised. “These things have a tendency to fit more comfortably when a gentleman has a moment alone with his reflection.” He handed each young man his garments and closed the doors behind them one by one. Matt laughed and called through the wall that they should all meet outside for photographs. John shouted back that he wanted to see who looked the most ridiculous. Don promised he would emerge looking like an English duke, and Mason declared that he intended to keep the pipe as a souvenir. Standing alone in the quiet hallway, the proprietor adjusted his spectacles and smiled to himself. He had selected each costume with great care. By the time the four young men emerged, they would be precisely the gentlemen the clothes had always been waiting for.
For Matt, the proprietor had selected a dark London gentleman’s suit: black coat, crisp collar, waistcoat, tie, polished shoes, and a curved pipe that felt absurd in his hand until he saw himself in the changing-room mirror.
At first, Matt only smiled at the costume. Then the mirror seemed to pull his reflection deeper. A shadow formed above his lip, the first uncertain line of a mustache, while faint creases gathered around his eyes. His hairline drew backward into a widow’s peak, thinning at the temples as if years were being combed through it.
By the time the mustache had grown thick and distinguished, his dark hair had turned salt-and-pepper and receded, leaving him looking like a composed London gentleman of nearly 60. Matt tried to remember the joke he had been about to make, but the thought dissolved. The pipe found its way to his mouth, and the man in the mirror no longer looked frightened. He looked assured.
John’s outfit was heavier, earthier: tweed jacket, waistcoat, checked shirt, dark tie, the sort of thing that made him look as if he should be standing beside a stone wall somewhere in the countryside minding sheep. He laughed when he first put it on, flexing his shoulders in the mirror, amused by how serious the clothes made him seem.
Then his reflection aged before he could step back. His close-cropped hair thinned at the crown, the hairline retreating. Stubble pushed out along his jaw, dark at first, then threaded with gray, thickening into a salt-and-pepper beard.
The sharp college-boy confidence in his face settled into something calmer and more reserved. By the end, John looked to be in his mid-50s, bald at the crown, bearded, steady-eyed, and utterly at home in the tweed. He no longer thought of it as a costume. It was simply what a man like him wore.
Don had expected to enjoy himself the most. His outfit was sleek and theatrical: a dark London coat, waistcoat, formal collar, and pocket square, all sharp lines and old-city elegance. In the mirror, his existing mustache looked almost too perfect for the clothes, and he smirked as he adjusted his lapels.
Then his mustache began to change. Its ends curled outward, becoming broader, heavier, more commanding. White hairs appeared first at his temples, then spread in bright strands through his dark hair and across the mustache itself. His face lengthened into maturity, lines forming beside his mouth and across his brow.
Don’s expression became cooler, more appraising. At sixty, he looked like a man who had spent decades in private clubs, theaters, and drawing rooms, with a grand white-streaked handlebar mustache and the posture of someone who had never once rushed for anyone. Don tried to say his own name and found it sounded strangely informal.
Mason’s clothes had the warmth of the country: brown tweed, green tie, waistcoat, pocket square, and a pipe that made him laugh when he first lifted it. He looked cheerful in the mirror, still young, still himself.
Then his smile faltered as his hairline pulled back and the first weight of age settled into his features. A beard spread over his jaw and down to his collar, mostly brown but already streaked white at the sides and around the chin. He touched it, stunned by how real it felt.
His new beard kept growing, thickening past his collar until it reached the middle of his chest, full and heavy, brown with pale threads shining through it. By the time Mason looked fifty, pipe resting naturally between his fingers, the face in the mirror seemed less like a transformation than a correction. The younger version of him felt flimsy, half-remembered, like a photograph left in another coat pocket.
When the four men emerged from their changing rooms, they paused in the narrow hallway and looked at one another. No one laughed. The loud young American voices that had filled the shop only minutes earlier were gone, replaced by quieter tones, slower gestures, and the easy recognition of old friends. Their memories of spring break, college, flights, and camera rolls faded into something distant and unimportant. The clerk opened the door for them, and London waited outside in the gold of early evening. Matt suggested a pint. John agreed that it would be sensible. Don remarked that the light on the patio was rather fine. Mason tucked his pipe between his teeth and led them next door.
By the time the glasses arrived, none of them could quite remember why they had wanted photographs. The thought belonged to someone younger, someone loud and temporary. They only knew that the city suited them, that the clothes suited them better, and that it was pleasant, after so many years of friendship, to sit together beneath the ivy in the fading London light.
A Grand Tour of the Realms by Ed Greenwood and Jeff Grubb, with Clyde Caldwell cover art, one of three books included in the Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting boxed set, TSR, 1993
