Ichante rolls over on her cot when Eddie barges in with his cheerful news about the sewers. "Shhh," she shushes him, "that's all terribly interesting, about the disintegrating hands and everything, but I simply have to get some sleep or I'm going to show up for my Lordstrung's appointment with bags under my eyes." With that she rolls over and returns to sleep, troubled by nightmares of ghouls with frown lines, crow's feet, acne scars, large pores, melasma, spider veins, and unsightly jowls.
Unable to sleep deeply due to fear of oversleeping, Ichante gets up in the morning with frizzy hair only to find her handsome guardian spirit is gone like a one-night stand with Traceless Walk. A long, wet ride from Redmond to Downtown Seattle perched on the back of Pale Horse's Suzuki Mirage does nothing to improve her mood. She shows up at Lordstrung's looking like a well-armored drowned rat in the middle of a AAA department store. She only makes it past the highly skeptical security troll by flashing the ARO of her reservation and protesting her innocence. By the time she gets to Lordstrung's Hall of Measuring and Pampering she is near tears, which probably wouldn't be visible given the raindrops stored in her hair that are steadily being released down her face.
"Oh, my dahling!" protests the effeminate ork who sweeps in to rescue her. He's wearing a high-collar floor-length coat with back shoulder flaring and flowing-but-layered lower half that Ichante instinctively identifies as the Ace of Cups from Vashon Island. "Come with me! We have to get you out of those... wet clothes!" He throws a plush towel around her shoulders as he leads her to the unisex spa, where he pushes her into a shower that blasts her simultaneously from six different shower heads. He gives her a terrycloth bathrobe that is thick enough to stop small-caliber bullets and that was clearly meant for someone taller than a dwarf. She emerges with a meter-long train of robe trailing behind her as the ork, introduced as Valentine, asserts his authority over her corporeal form. Ichante soon finds herself reclining in a chair with form-fitting gel cushions. She's asleep before she knows it, waking up some time later to discover some sort of vegetable slices over her eyes. Her stomach grumbles audibly and she has to resist eating the strange, watery slices.
"No time for breakfast?" Valentine asks as he undoes her braids and washes her hair gently in 40 C water that has been filtered via reverse osmosis. He stops to clap imperiously with shampoo suds on his hands. A Renraku Manservant lumbers forward through the curtain of shampoo bubbles with a tray of fresh fruits, pastries, herbal teas, and sparkling water. Ichante would stare except for the fact that she has vegetables over her eyes and can't see any of it. Valentine feeds her like a mama bird while applying various facial products. She tries the first grape of her life, followed by a slice of something else.
"What is this?" she asks with wonder.
"That's a satsuma," Valentine replies succinctly, eliminating her split ends snip by snip with his silver shears. "They grow them in California Free State and the CAS but we import ours from Japan."
After drying her hair, applying conditioner, and then wrapping it up on top of her head in one of those towel tornadoes, Valentine seizes her hands and gives her a manicure while chattering on about the Neo-Aztec influences that define the styles of Armanté this season. "Aztechnology was a major supporter for Vitorrio Armanté’s shadow war with Zoé to recover the rights to the line name back in ’73," he says with a conspiratorial whisper, before proceeding to her feet while lamenting the lack of originality in Mortimer of London's most recent lines.
Once Ichante is suitably settled in her heavy robe and towel hair and facial mask and toe-separator thingee that women use to keep their toes separate while their nails dry, Valentine steps forward with a heavy leather-bound tome that he carries with an expression of deep reverence.
"I understand you are here for the Synergist Business Line. These are the fabric samples. Please, take your time."
Ichante opens the heavy book slowly as it casts a golden glow over her. She flips from page to page, eyes wide with wonder and the botulinum toxin treatment that Valentine injected around her face. She runs her hand over each sample as Valentine fills her in on the wonders of superwools with a maximum fiber diameter of 11.25 µ or less. "It comes from Awakened bighorn sheep!" he says with genuine excitement. "Can you believe it? There are rumors that Heritage is working on a new fabric derived from wild satyr wool!"
After careful consultation, Ichante selects a light grey fabric with subtle white pin stripes that will make her look imperceptibly taller. Valentine bows deeply and withdraws walking backward, lest he turn his back on his client.
"Wait, what about my measurements?" Ichante cries with some alarm to no avail. She is left to console herself with the tea sandwiches, petit fours, and kombucha that the Renraku Manservant - named Jeeves - provides at regular intervals.
"Thank you, Jeeves," she says absentmindedly, wondering if she could string together a handful of Healthy Glow and Fashion spells to recreate the experience at home.
Soon - too soon - Valentine emerges to rinse the conditioner out of her hair and remove her facial mask. Once she is back in her natural state, a series of drone porters glide in silently to present Ichante with a carefully curated selection of lingerie and lacy unmentionables. She hastily selects the least-frilly option while Valentine excuses himself so Ichante can dress herself. When she's ready Valentine returns with her new suit, which he folds over his arm and presents with a bow. Ichante tears up at the sight of the suit, knowing that her time in this oasis of corporate civility and class is drawing to a close. Valentine studies her closely after she dresses, looking for imperfections.
"I think the jacket needs to be darted," Ichante insists, hoping to extend the experience.
"It's perfect," Valentine retorts, plucking at the shoulders of the suit. Ichante knows he's right. It's perfect, frag it.
"Ah, but I can't send you back out in those!" Valentine protests, pointing at Ichante's boots with a bent wrist. He claps his hands again and a modified GM-Nissan Doberman rolls in with a selection of attractive but sensible high heels.
In her suit and heels, Valentine presents her with her old clothes in a Lordstrung's bag, which Ichante silently promises to frame as soon as she gets paid. Valentine escorts her to the door, where he summons a black cab with a single raised hand. Pale Horse is out there at the same time with her effeminate ork, who stares daggers at Ichante's effeminate ork. The women greet each other and agree to share a cab. "Where can it take you?" Valentine asks.
Ichante opens her mouth but realizes she can't say "Redmond", nor can she simply just walk home in the Underground looking like this, even if it is only eight or ten blocks. Instead she says "Gaeatronics Mountain," thinking that it sounds plausible given their ethnicity while reasoning that Bellevue is at least halfway to Redmond. She can call Eddie for a ride while taking a walking tour through the rooftop gardens (maybe the covered parts, given the weather) as well as see some of the facilities from the ground floor visitor’s center. Valentine helps her into the cab then presents her with a cup of peppermint tea and a small box of chocolate truffles made by someone with an expensive French name. Ichante cries a single tear as the heavy door closes and the taxi pulls out into traffic.
