Design

"You are stealing my designs," he said, arriving at the shop unexpectedly and pushing through to the back room. She took off her sewing glasses and set her project down. "No, I am not stealing your designs," she replied directly. "Further, I am not a designer and have no interest in what amounts to fashion at any given moment." "But I have followed my custom," he seethed, "and they all bring their garments here. I cannot think of why ... except to sell the pattern of the finished piece." She sighed, and stood up, moving over to a dress form in the corner that sported a raw linen panel covered with markings. "As a simple seamstress, my job is to repair and adjust. Your custom visits because you only provide hand warming and fan pockets in the garments you create." He looked confused (and this did not surprise her). "Your gowns are absolutely stunning - truly magnificent," she continued, "but you refuse to believe that women desire to be heavily armed. There is not a single concealed pouch in any of your dress layers that will accommodate a weapon, so they come to me to have them added. This one is a whip pocket." "A ... whip ... ?" he stammered. "Pocket, yes," she repeated. "My first whip pocket; typically, I'm working to add storage for blades and short form cudgels. Make no mistake that, under the voluminous silks and satins, these things are what the ladies are wearing this season. It's what they wear every season." He was speechless (a mixture of shocked, awed, impressed, and horrified), and she rather enjoyed the moment of silence.