There was still a quiet, rippling rage under the Tailor's skin when they finally returned to their sad little flat above their master's shop that evening after class. It was a familiar shape, even if it roiled with newfound vengeance after two weeks of going undetected, going docile without its permission. They slipped their coat off, and then their waistcoat, and dropped into the small chair that sat by the window of what was barely a kitchenette.

The headache had not quite ceased its pounding. They rapped their fingers against the windowsill as they thought, jaw tight and eyes cast out the pane without really seeing.

There was some kind of crossroads approaching them, or they were at it already, they couldn't be sure. Maybe it was a series of branching paths consecutively. Regardless, they would have to start making decisions very shortly, and they never liked to make decisions without seeing all the angles. Even when the Tailor was impatient, it was because they'd taken so many steps already to achieve their goal, and was willing to take the final leap, with confidence in their own prowess.

Even a hunter, who had to adapt in the moment, who had to make decisions in the split seconds between life and death, was more likely to succeed if they went in prepared, knowing what to expect. Measure twice, cut once. (Ha. They'd written that on the assignment their first week, hadn't they?)

They would not be going along with the Academic's plans, obviously. They'd already committed to that decision and they would not sit and question the choice. Their reasoning was sound. They knew they were right: they would not have flourished under the thumb of a Master. (They imagined it for a moment. The Academic introducing the Tailor to Master Veils, full of confidence that it would be best for everyone. They imagined the Academic's face, as Veils took a long deliberating look at the Tailor, and then looked away. Again.)

So. The fabric would need to be returned, they'd already said as much and they preferred to keep their word. This was fine. If they bothered with any embroidery, it would be into leather, and the Tailor had gone to great pains to keep their Correspondence warm but without quite lighting, even in linen. (Oh, there had been so much burnt linen.) They would do as they'd said, even if it has been said in anger.

They'd need to prepare for next week. Plan a strategy, confer with others. Now, with their distrust and their skepticism and their forward thinking fully returned, the Tailor found themself... reluctant. There were a number of reasons for it, and laughably, one of those was regarding the truth of their legal name. A really small, embarrassing thing, really. Not nearly a good enough reason to deny help.

That would be the biggest thing to resolve, in these moments. Still... what of after?

They'd had a... an admittedly foolish dream, for the end of class. Impressing the Emissary, receiving a letter, getting out of this tiny shop that had given them so much but had stifled the extent of their true abilities. Taking a new collection of clients with them, perhaps finally having their own shop with their own drafting table and control over what they created, who they created for. And... blast, it was so silly, how badly they'd wanted to impress their teacher, whose own tastes always seemed impeccable. They'd hoped one day the Academic would even call on them in their new shop, allow them to make something that would make the individual shine in public, something that this star of the Neath would be proud and excited to wear. Even knowing with hunter's instinct this was a dangerous person, more monstrous beneath the mask, they'd still- wanted- and they still wanted-!

Ah. Stupid.

Well, it didn't all need to be tossed aside. They didn't know that they even still wanted a letter from their teacher, despite it being still on the table, if admittedly to a new sponsor. But the client list had already grown simply from their classmates. They were getting access to new tools, gaining secrets and skills that would help them to grow. Perhaps the shop was not as far out of reach as they feared.

(And maybe- the Academic had really recognized their ability and their passion, maybe-)

So. All manageable, all able to be adjusted, things they could strive for and succeed in with the right planning. So why were they still so angry? What was left?

God, they needed a drink.

…hm.

The Tailor stood, and from a lower cabinet in the kitchenette they fetched a bottle full of dark liquid that never ceased its movement. They fetched a glass, and set both onto the tiny folding table by the window. They stared out the pane again.

Ambition. Anger. Spite and focus. The need to know. And the dreams they'd ceased having.

The Tailor had never partaken in Black Wings Absinthe before, but they knew what it was and they knew what it did. It was yet another secret they'd gleaned from the nuns, back when they were small and had crept into the Mother Superior's rooms to sneak under her bed and listen to her scratch notes and whisper directions to her Sisters. A drop of blood in every bottle. It gave you dreams through the eyes of the Vake, and the Vake looked back out to you. Hunters who partook of the stuff too much were- changed, maybe, before they were killed inevitably.

Dreams of flying, they'd heard from Vake Hunters in the Medusa's Head. Dreams of stars.

They'd had those dreams before. The Professor had worried Veils was seeking them, had advised caution.

Well. The Professor may have real reason to worry, now.

They uncorked the bottle. The smell was potent and encouraged them, in the same way their harpoon encouraged them to strike for the kill when it was in their hands. They poured a shot's worth into the glass and lifted it into the air in toast, looking out the window again to the empty spaces above the rooftops and the false-stars above.

“Cheers.”

You dream you are flying under the gaze of a staring, glaring sun, and you are so hungry your teeth ache. The city of London below you glows in light, and it is a wrong thing. It is wrong in a myriad of ways you only somewhat understand the shape of.

There is something wrong with you, too. Your wings feel less like strong vaned mass and more like heavy fabric trying to catch a billowing breeze that is only sometimes there to lift you. You're not flying so much as trying to keep afloat

And you're sinking fast. Dropping, wing hitting a chimney column, claws scraping tiles off the rooftops. The Bazaar's spires loom tall, and you don't think you'll make it to the rooms of silk and birdsong. And it is so, so, bright-

“Oh, it has gotten pretty bad, hasn't it?”