andhiswife | (Reply)

Greta spends the interim pacing the dressing room, not out of restlessness, but just to get a feel for what walking in trousers is like. It would take some getting used to, she thinks, the fabric clinging in places it normally wouldn't. But it's just odd, not unbearable. She could cope.

Especially if it meant giving other people a delightful sort of shock. She turns in front of the mirror, taking herself in, and bites back another giddy smile.

She's shucked off the jacket by the time Nina returns, and she beams at the compliment. "You really think so?" she asks as Nina helps her into the waistcoat. "I've never been dashing before." That was a word reserved for Princes back home, or Knights. Not women, and certainly not peasant women. It's rather thrilling to think she might qualify, here.

With an amused snort, she adds, "We'll have to be careful with the heels. It'll spoil the whole effect if I fall on my face because I can't walk in the bloody things."

She buttons the waistcoat, then takes in the new look, her lower lip caught pensively between her teeth. "You know, if the blouse were different -- the sleeves a bit looser, maybe -- it might look a little more feminine, but no less formal." She still likes the way the suit had looked, but she's also wondering if it might be a little easier to adjust to a less extreme change.