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Malikai shifted his weight, squinting once more at the list in his hands. As the son of a sometimes-seamstress, he recognized most all of the materials on it — barithean lace, rottranisse silver-silk, itarsi, saffan and viriess thread — and could identify most on his own, even going so far as to have at least a basic sense of quality and craftsmanship. So it wasn’t a major deal in that regard that his mother had tasked him with retrieving such things for her. But, basic knowledge and familiarity aside, Malik was thirteen, nearly fourteen, and well on his way to becoming a personal guard, or at the very least, a trained soldier for Aevah’s infantry once he came of age. He was serving as a personal squire to a girl of noble birth, training every day and learning the way of his blade, with doors of opportunity opening in ways he had once never dreamed of.

The fact that his mother took time to insist on assigning him to tasks like this — fetching thread, helping her deliver pastries and other baked goods, cleaning shop, and so on — made him wonder if these weren’t, really, her lingering attempts to keep him off of the path he was setting for himself as long as possible. He knew she didn’t want him to be a soldier, didn’t want him to fight to begin with, and — when he was a very young boy — she had once hoped that the greatest good to come of the tragedy involving his leg would be that he would be spared a warrior’s life. Of course, Malikai’s own choices had conflicted greatly with her wishes in that regard, but he hadn’t the heart to push his own goals on her any more forcefully than necessary. If it appeased her to send him on thread-fetching errands, so be it. Tucking away his list, he stepped into the shop.

Ever-conscious of the metallic clack of his artificial leg when entering new locations, he walked lightly as he could, moving slowly and eyeing the shop itself. Being that his mother was working for a new client this round, the place was located in a part of the city he had never actually visited, making all of it new to him. Reams upon reams of brightly colored textiles, patterned and not, laces, spools of thread, all lined up on shelves like a great library, but instead of books, different varieties of cloth and decorative ornaments. Several heavy coats hung from the hanger by the door, and to his left, a long, haphazardly hung ribbon of measuring tape layered over a naked mannequin.

Malikai’s eyes darted about, seeking out a source of authority. “Hello?” The varnished wooden desk from behind which he expected customers were usually greeted was temporarily empty. “Is anyone…? If it’s closed, I can, ah…” Malikai stalled, eyes catching on a particularly vibrant sheet of loose silk draped over one of the display ladders. Orange-pink, like a sunrise, and gleaming. It reminded him Laesara’s hair, golden, and bright. Without thinking fully through, he reached, catching a corner and brushing his thumb over it.

Malikai jerked around at the unanticipated voice, already sharp with reprimand, and a burning flush of embarrassment crawled up his neck, staining his typically green skin a ruddy red-orange as he stepped away, tucking his hand far from the cloth as possible. “Sorry—sorry, m’sorry I didn’…I wasn’ tryin’ t’ make a mess, I swear it. I didn’ see you…er, not—not tha’ I would of been tryin’ to mess nothin’ up even if I did, I just — I was lookin’, s’all but I won’t touch I, um…”

His gaze flicked down the girl, taking her in: young, about his age, with soft blue lightly waved hair and pale violet eyes. Pretty. Though, for all her visual look of delicacy, she clearly had plenty of spirit. His face heated further and he forced his gaze away and down.

“I, uh—I actually did come t’ purchase some things…” Brilliant. Because that wasn’t why most persons entered stores in the first place, was it? “Not tha’ — not tha’ tha’ isn’ what most folk do, m’just…sayin’ — um…” He cleared his throat, reaching down and fumbling to withdraw the list his mother had given him before starting hesitantly over towards the counter. “I was needin’ a few things they didn’ have in the shop in the lower west quarter, but was told y’ did here? Barithean lace — in seashell white if’n you’ve got it — rotranisse silk and…several sorts o’ thread, though we wouldn’t be needin’ big spools on that. Just for touch up…” He thumbed the corner of the list, glancing surreptitiously back up to eye her. Very pretty. He swallowed again and shifted his weight, abruptly all the more conscious of the stiffness in his posture and his mechanical leg. “I, mm…m’sorry t’ bother you, if this wasn’ a good time, or…ah…I’m Malikai,” he said. “Just um…by the by. Do you ‘ave a name?”

Malikai flushed warmer as the girl’s tone softened, visibly relieved that he hadn’t gotten off on a permanently wrong foot with her. Despite being told he could touch, though, he felt it better not to overstep his welcome and kept his fingers to himself, nodding mutely at her initial commentary. It had been soft. High quality, perfectly woven without a run or blemish in sight. His fingers almost seemed wrong on it to begin with — too coarse and stubbled with callouses to belong fingering around on fine silks. Peasant’s hands.

“Ten yards o’ the lace,” he said, speaking up when she started asking questions. “That’s for a dress t’ be stitched and done up from nothin’. My mum, she — well, she isn’t a tailor, leastways not often, but she’s doin’ it special this once. Same with th’ silk, though she’s needin’ a full bolt o’ that. The threads are just for re-stitchin’ and mendin’ and such. That’s what she does mostly, when she’s not runnin’ the bakery, but mm…”

After fiddling for a moment and trailing off with the mental note that the girl probably didn’t care that much what all his mother did, he stepped up towards the counter, listing the types of thread as asked and laying out the written information his mother had given him, in case she wanted to refer to it. As he watched her move and fetch things, Malikai shook his head in belated answer to her latter commentary.

“It is nice meetin’ you and you’re not rude…you seem to be handlin’ the shop right proper — I wouldn’t ‘ave known it was your first time doin’ it yourself.” After a pause, he shifted his weight and sent her a sheepish, if genuine, grin. “Maybe one day you will run it yourself, yeah? Is it your parents’ shop?”