Dragon's Tailor
Searching Dragons, Volume 2
Zoe Chant
Published by Zoe Chant, 2021
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to persons, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
DRAGON'S TAILOR
First Edition.
Copyright © 2021 by Zoe Chant
Written by Zoe Chant
Chapter One
∞∞∞
As Harper expertly reattached the tiny pearl button on the blouse, she found her mind wandering back to the sketch in her drawing pad. Her fingers stitched the button back into place with careless competence, but she couldn't stay focused on the task at hand, always a bad sign.
I know that I could figure it out if I just had a little more time with it. The patterning is so very close, and then I could get the specs to Mr. Mercks before the end of the week.
Harper knotted the thread and snipped it with the delicate pair of scissors hanging on a cord around her neck. She knew how silly it was to be this fond of a man she had never met, but the truth of the matter was that she was fond of Mr. Mercks. On their phone calls, he had turned out to be a gentleman with an old-world charm and dignified way of speaking, a hint of his native Austria in his voice. He was frank about the stroke that left him wheelchair-bound for almost a year and even franker about his birthday celebration in August, where many of his family members would be seeing him for the first time since he left the hospital.
“I must be well-dressed,” he stressed. “Sharp, you understand, miss? I have sent you pictures. I must be very handsome, and of course, I must dress myself.”
Harper had laughed a little at the emphasis that Mr. Mercks put on handsome, but going through the pictures, she understood. He was as neat as a pin in the pictures he had texted to her, dressed in chocolate browns and deep blues, every part pressed smooth and straight. She saw as well the fierce intelligence and pride in his eyes. She did not need it spelled out for her how hard the last year had been for him, a man that proud and independent needing to rely on others for help with everything from getting dressed to leaving the house.
“I called upon you,” he said stiffly, “because Jeremy, my therapist, he knew your work through another client. He said you will make things to to suit, and that you do beautiful work. None of these baggy disgraces ...”
“I do custom tailoring, yes, Mr. Mercks,” she said. “Let's talk a little more about what you want.”
To her surprise, that wrung a laugh from him.
“Yes, what I want,” he said with a little bit of wonder. “For so long now, it has been what I need and what others have decided for me. Yes, let us talk about what I want.”
And that was why she loved her job, even if there were days where it certainly did not seem to love her back. A warning twinge through her fingers told her that she needed to lay the project aside for at least a little while, even if there was a part of her that argued that there were only two buttons left and that it was almost done. If she could get it done before close in the next hour or so, that meant that there was a chance that she could get the client to pick up the full job and pay for it, and that would all go towards the power bill for the shop, and...
She shook her head and resolutely put the blouse away. Instead of laying it aside on her table, she slid it back into the box where she'd be less likely to pull it out again after a quick break. A certain tingle in her hand told her she had stopped just in time, and she pursed her lips against the anger and disappointment at how her day had been cut short.
At least I've finally learned to read the signs, she thought. At least I'm not risking days, maybe weeks, out of commission just for another hour or two of productivity.
She would have said that rheumatoid arthritis was a pain in the ass, but instead it was a pain in her hand and her wrist.
Instead of continuing with the buttons, she reached for her pad of paper, sketching out her ideas for Mr. Mercks's suit. He had very exacting tastes and a strong interest in clean lines that she had to admit suited him very well.
The standard rear closure and open back, of course, but the fabric he wants is so very crisp. It really should be softer, though he will hardly be wearing this outfit all day, every day ...If I can replace the fabric of the seat of the trousers, it should be nearly invisible...
Harper was so consumed with her notes that she didn't notice the man who entered the shop until he cleared his throat.
Harper yelped, her pencil practically hopping out of her hand, and then she was staring up at one of the most attractive men she had ever laid eyes on. He was tall and lean, rangy, her mother would have said, but even in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a light black jacket, it was easy to tell that he was incredibly fit. His head was tilted slightly aside so she couldn't see his face fully, but his features were fine and chiseled, making her want to reach over and brush back the sheaf of dark hair that fell over his brow.
“Well, hello, gorgeous,” she blurted out, and then she shook her head as the man stared at her in bewilderment.
“I was looking for Harper Prynn. An acquaintance told me she did clothing alteration,” he said, perplexed, and she finally remembered to heave herself up to the counter, offering him her hand.
“I'm afraid that's me,” Harper said with a slight grin.
“Hm,” said tall, dark, and uninterested-in-eye-contact.
Something about him told her he wasn't missing a
