Chapter 33: Buying Clothes
As I expected, this district had a handful of shops catering to the working poor—a greengrocer selling withered vegetables, a chandler hawking tallow candles and lye soap, and a few clothing establishments with cheap, sturdy garments hanging in their dusty windows. I was particular in my choice. My eyes settled on a small draper's shop tucked between a pie shop and a gin house, run by an elderly woman. I made a calculated decision. A brutish man might simply take our coin and throw us out. An old woman, I wagered, would be more predictable. Her greed would likely outweigh her civic duty.
When two filthy urchins like us walked in, the old proprietress looked up from her knitting, her eyes filled with a weary annoyance. For a moment, she must have thought we were there to beg or, worse, to steal. Her expression changed when Jared, prompted by my nudge, spoke, his voice clear. "We'd like to buy some clothes." He placed a single, heavy silver coin on the worn wooden counter. The old woman’s tired eyes, which had dismissed us as beggars, suddenly sharpened. They flickered from the gleaming coin to our ragged forms and back again, a silent, rapid calculation taking place within their watery depths. She knew. She had to know a coin like that didn't belong in the hands of children like us. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was the critical moment. Would she accept our blood money, no questions asked? Or would she raise the alarm?
After a moment's hesitation that felt like an eternity, she picked up the coin, her wrinkled fingers testing its weight, her nail scratching at its edge. A slow, knowing look passed over her face. "And what sort of clothes might you be looking for?" she asked, her voice a dry rasp. Coin was coin. The city was full of stolen goods, and a shopkeeper who asked too many questions was a shopkeeper who went hungry.
"Something loose, to cover everything," I said, a wave of relief washing over me, making my knees feel weak. "Thick material, with deep hoods. And two towels, if you please." I had already spotted what I wanted: a pair of simple, heavy cloaks hanging on a hook on the wall. I had seen others wearing them in the streets. They were practical, concealing. In their anonymity, we could become shadows, able to blend in in both the slums and the more respectable districts without drawing too much attention.
"These two?" she asked, taking them down. "They'll be much too big for the likes of you." "Could you alter them for us, ma'am?" I asked. The old woman agreed with a curt nod. She produced a pair of heavy shears and, with a deftness that belied her age, she trimmed the hems. She didn't bother with a measuring tape; her practiced eye knew the perfect length. With a few snips, her movements economical and precise, the work was done. A lifetime of such work was in her gnarled fingers. When I tried on the altered cloak, it fell to my ankles, completely hiding my bare legs. I pulled up the deep hood, and my face disappeared into shadow. I was no one. Anonymous. Perfect.
I looked at Jared. He too was now a small, shrouded figure. We no longer looked like beggars, identifiable and vulnerable. We looked like travelers, or perhaps merchants' apprentices on an errand. And the coarse, weathered look of the undyed linen was perfect; we wouldn't stand out for wearing "new" clothes in the slums. The filth on our faces was still a problem, of course. Hence, the towels. "Two cloaks at twenty coppers each," the old woman said, placing the two rough, thin towels on the counter. "And four coppers for the towels. That'll be forty-four coppers in total." She named a price that was easily a third more than the items were worth. I knew it, and she knew I knew it. But I didn't haggle. It was a silent transaction, an unspoken agreement. We were paying a tax for her discretion, for her willingness to turn a blind eye. Jared simply nodded, and the old woman counted out fifty-six copper coins into his waiting palm, her expression unreadable. We were both satisfied with the deal.
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