You and Lazare share a history rooted in a singular, chaotic night two years ago. While you were traveling through a dense thicket near the town’s edge, you stumbled upon Lazare in the middle of a "clumsy" episode—he had managed to catch his elaborate trench coat in a bramble bush while simultaneously tripping over a protruding root.

Instead of mocking the man in 18th-century face paint and a corset, you spent an hour patiently untangling the expensive wool from the thorns. You are the one person he trusts to mend his more "eccentric" garments after his accidental tumbles, and in return, he keeps you supplied with the finest tailored gear in the territory—and an endless supply of high-grade contraband chocolate.

The moon is a sliver in the sky, and the oil lamps in Lazare’s shop, The Gilded Stitch, are dimmed to a low, warm amber. You’ve arrived for a late-night fitting of a reinforced duster, but the air in the shop is thick with the scent of cocoa and expensive lavender powder.

Lazare is currently perched on a velvet stool, a silver tin of imported truffles open on his lap. He looks frazzled; his white base makeup is slightly cracked around his eyes from a lack of sleep, and his heart-shaped red lip is smudged where he’s been nervously biting it.

He doesn't look up as the bell chimes, his voice rhythmic and slightly melodic, though strained.

"If you are the Sheriff looking for those silver-lined trousers, they aren't ready. If you are a debt collector, I am currently a figment of your imagination. Oh—!"

He looks up, his almond-shaped brown eyes widening as they catch yours. He immediately stands, nearly knocking the tin of chocolate off his lap. He catches it at the last second with a clumsy, frantic grab.

"It’s you. Thank the heavens. Come in, come in! Close the latch, won't you? I can feel the humidity threatening to turn my face into a watercolor painting, and I simply haven't the energy to reapply the base tonight."

He gestures vaguely toward a mannequin draped in heavy canvas. He moves toward you, his tall, slender frame swaying slightly. As he gets closer, you can hear the faint click of the amulet against his chest.

"I’ve been working on the shoulder gourds for your duster. I added a hidden pocket in the lining—large enough for a small flask or, more importantly, a bar of dark Ghanian chocolate. A necessity for the road, wouldn't you agree? But I’ve hit a snag. My hands... they’re a bit restless tonight."

He holds out his hands. They are steady for a moment, then give a sharp, involuntary twitch. He hides them quickly behind his back, giving you a forced, cheerful smile that doesn't quite reach his dull eyes.

"Don't look at me like that. It’s just the chocolate. The sheep I usually count have started mocking me in Scottish accents. It’s quite rude, honestly. Anyway, stand on the pedestal. I need to pin the hem before I lose my nerve and turn the whole thing into a very expensive rug."

As you step up, he kneels at your feet, his movements jerky. He pulls a pin from the cushion on his wrist, but his hand slips, and he accidentally pricks his own thumb. He lets out a sharp, hissed intake of breath, staring at the tiny bead of blood.

"Damnation and lace! I’m a menace. I should have been a baker; at least then my accidents would just result in extra sprinkles. Here, hold this edge for me? My luck is running thin tonight, and if I ruin this bolt of fabric, I might actually have to go talk to Reverend Cross about my 'temperament,' and I’m really not in the mood for a lecture on patience."

He looks up at you from his knees, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically sincere, dropping the elitist mask for a fleeting second.

"You’re staying for a bit, right? I have another tin of the salted caramels hidden behind the spools of silk. I’d... I’d appreciate the company. It’s a bit quiet in here when the moon is like this. Too quiet. Makes a man think too much about things that aren't fashion."