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“How would you feel about something like this, my dear?” Vivienne asked, gesturing to the gown on the wooden mannequin before them.
“I like the fabric,” Alya said. She caressed the heavily embroidered turquoise silk, nearly sighing with bliss at the feel of it beneath her fingers, and wondered if it would be at all feasible to institute some sort of mandatory fancy dress policy at Skyhold after they’d made sure the Empress kept her head. She didn’t even have a gown yet, and she was already lamenting the idea of only getting to wear it once. “I don’t think it would fit me, though.”
Vivienne laughed gaily. “Don’t be absurd, darling. Women of our station do not simply buy gowns off the mannequin,” she said, with a visible shudder. “No, no,no—these gowns are merely examples of Marceline’s work, for inspirational purposes. Our gowns will be made to our specifications.”
“Yes, quite right,” the seamstress said, rushing to join them. She made a quick curtsy. “A thousand apologies, mesdames, that last fitting took ages. And for a second wedding, no less,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper to Vivienne, who tutted in disapproval.
Alya wasn’t sure whether it was the remarrying or the commission of a new gown for said remarriage that was cause for disdain, but she daren’t ask in front of Marceline, who was in the process of rolling another mannequin over toward them, the gown upon it constructed out of a shimmering bronze satin. The gown sported a tightly-fitted bodice covered in intricate metalwork, with dramatically flared hips and epaulets and that jutted out like dragon horns, dragging a heavy damask cape behind them.
“Inquisitor?” Marceline prompted.
Alya frowned. “It looks a bit intimidating, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t I choose something a bit more pretty?”
“The two are hardly mutually exclusive,” Vivienne said. “We are, both of us, powerful women. Fashion exists to remind people of that.” She regarded the gown carefully. “Though it is a bit severe for someone your age. Marceline, darling, perhaps something a bit more youthful for Inquisitor Lavellan?”
“But of course!” Marceline replied, flitting off to the other end of the salon and returning a moment later with another mannequin in tow. The style of this gown was wildly different from the ones before it. While the other gowns had boasted structured bodices, this one flowed loosely from a waistline situated right below the bust, and was constructed of a light, sheer fabric that seemed to float as it moved. “Chiffon,” Marceline called it, holding the skirt out for Alya to feel. “Imported from the finest textile house in Antiva City.”
“It’s lovely,” Alya said. “But I thought full skirts were the fashion?” she asked Vivienne.
“They are, my dear. Which means that simply everyone will be wearing them, which is why we simply mustn’t,” she explained. Alya must have looked confused, because she continued, “Adhering to the style of the season is of the utmost importance—for normal people. You and I—do forgive me for saying it—are better than those people. We must stand out. Our sartorial choices must not be merely acceptable, but avant-garde; the sort of thing everyone else in attendance will be talking about for weeks to come.”
“There are so many rules,” Alya breathed, her head reeling with the weight of this newfound responsibility.
Vivienne smiled warmly, taking Alya’s arm in hers. “My dear, that is precisely why you have me. Now, tell us: what sort of gown shall we put you in so that the whole of Orlais will be dazzled by your elegance?”
Alya considered for a moment. There were a lot of rules, yes, but it seemed that it was her duty to break them. She cast her eyes about the salon until a gown in the far corner caught her attention. It didn’t follow the Orlesian fashion in the slightest, and yet, something about its design spoke to her. “What about something like that?”
Vivienne followed her gaze. She pursed her lips thoughtfully.
“Not exactly like that, though,” Alya said quickly. “No lining on top. And backless, I think.”
“Daring!” Vivienne said, looking impressed.
“And much more beading,” Alya continued, her heart racing with excitement as the vision of her gown crystallized in her mind. “Maybe in ivory? Or green?”
Vivienne laughed delightedly. “Marceline! Bring your swatches and your sketchbook. I believe the Inquisitor has found her gown.”