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He caught a glance of himself in a parlor window, and stopped.
It was not often Mr. Brett Heroux could be found in a dress. But he really wasn’t Brett, not today, not for the case- he was Lady Kyle, a simple window shopper. Lady Kyle wore a simple day dress and shawl, and her hair was fairly hidden under her hat. It wasn’t the first time the detective had disguised himself for a case, and not even the first time he’d donned the guise of Lady Kyle. There were advantages, he believed, to the female costume, and those advantages were vital in his investigations today.
Brett looked at her in the window more than he did the products, and admired her. It was odd. On the surface, growing up, he had been forced to wear these sorts of things for ‘modesty’s sake’, and because it was proper for a young lady to do so.
“But I am not a lady,” Brett had always protested, and he was right. But he could not deny the glee he felt when he saw expensive fabrics draped just perfectly around his figure. It had carried over to his taste in suits- he tailored them himself, unable to trust any local tailors with the secrets laid bare on his chest.
He had fallen into luck, when he helped the sewist. He called the matter ‘The Case of the Cogent Cryptographer’. He had taken him into his confidence, and they’d fashioned a thing, a brilliant thing- it made his chest look flat without the constriction of the bandages he’d used on the surface. No one had been there for him, then, no one that knew what a man with an unusual chest ought to do with it. But then the sewist smiled, and showed him what he wore underneath his suit.
Brett remembers nearly crying with relief. He tilted his head, and stepped a bit closer to the glass to observe the powder on his face. He met another set of eyes, and his own narrowed.
His quarry waited on the other side of the glass. He could think about this all later.
…
She had lost him. The only thing Lady Kyle had found was that her quarry was onto her, and she sighed as she made her way to Bret’s Heroux’s home in the Bazaar Sidestreets. She opened the door and heard the bell above it tinkle, and the shopkeeper, Mr. Preston, bounded to meet her. She held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.
“I’d like to see the detective,” she said, disporting with any pleasantries. The man nodded, and pointed upstairs.
“He should be up there, ma’am. Though, he may have slipped out without my noticing.” Lady Kyle thanked him with a curt nod, and ascended the stairs.
It was Brett who found himself in front of his own vanity, looking at Lady Kyle once again. The skirt, he detested- far too scratchy for his tastes. He quickly pulled it down, but hesitated to take the bodice off. He didn’t know why. It was just… well, it was pretty. The fabric was lush, a gift from a dressmaker he’d had the luxury of helping in a detecting matter, and he adored the way it made him look. The puff at his shoulders seemed especially stylish. He sighed, and took it off.
A few layers and a visit to his closet later, he was back in his nightshirt. He sat down at the vanity, and began to peel off his wig. He carefully pried it off, and took off the cap underneath. He ruffled his hair, and looked up- and what a sight he was!
Brett Heroux, not Lady Kyle, was the most beautiful he’d felt in ages. Around his neck, not hers, was a locket containing a face only he knew. But when he looked up, he grinned. His skin was lightly powdered, and a bit of plum rouge tinted his cheekbones. Best of all, his lips were a dull mauve, thanks to a tincture he borrowed from Emery.
“It’s not something I’m happy to wear,” the novice spy had deflected, as if the notion of enjoying this would be a hit to his pride, as he’d demonstrated applying the tincture. “But some jobs require me not to be Emery, and this is the quickest way to be someone I’ll never be. Add some powder and a skirt if you can stomach it, and even you won’t recognize yourself.”
Brett had thought he’d agree. But when he saw himself now, he smiled. He went back to the closet, and grabbed the gift from the sewist and his chemise. He put them on, careful not to lace the gift too tight, and looked at the mirror. He leaned closer, putting his hands on the vanity. But then, his smile dropped.
“Do men wear these sorts of things?” He wondered aloud, as if someone could hear him. He frowned, and grabbed a washcloth and began to wipe at his face. As he did, he avoided the mirror.
…
Lady Kyle had found the culprit, but did not stay around for the constables. In any form, Brett supposed, he would always detest them. Today, she was wearing a dark bicycling suit, and she biked her way back to the Bazaar Side Streets. They made their way home, and made their way up the stairs. Once again, Brett found himself at the vanity. He had liked the skirt’s material far better than yesterday’s, dark and sleek, and he stepped away from the vanity and to his bedside to look at the mail. Brett felt distinctly him as he did, and pursed his lips. When that was done, he began to undress.
…
‘Do men wear these sorts of things?’ echoed in his mind. He grabbed a brush, and began to comb through his hair. Lady Kyle was just a disguise- that, he knew. But the application hadn’t been so bad. In fact, today he had worn something downright pleasant. But he hadn’t felt like Brett until he got home, and had taken off most everything except-
He was in the chemise and gift, again, his face adorned with tinctures and powders. He was wearing a smart set of laced boots with small heels on the bottom. He ruffled his hair once more, and looked at his reflection. It didn’t look like the heroes adorning the front covers of penny dreadfuls. It didn’t even look like the men he saw at Concord Square. But it looked like him.
And that, he supposed, was all that mattered. When he put the washrag to his face, this time, he watched.
…
He hadn’t expected to see Emery there. Even if it was Emery’s townhouse.
Brett had come, the veil on his hat hiding most of his face, hoping his friend would not be home. It hadn’t made much sense, but he had done it anyway. He cursed under his breath. He raised himself from the spare chair, and caught a glimpse of himself. He scoffed. Brett made his way back to the door, and (to his horror) felt someone grab the knob from the other side. When Emery opens the door, the detective isn’t sure what to do. If he had his choice on the matter, he’d scream. But he senses that wouldn’t help the situation. So, he gives him a disarming smile, and dips his head as a greeting.
There’s a moment of silence there, as Emery locks eyes with the detective. Brett almost reconsiders the notion of screaming as it drags on, as his friend’s eyes stare forward, almost blankly. When Emery does speak, it is with an off putting and confused tone.
“I’m sorry, but who are you? And why are you in my house?”
“I-” Brett begins. Very eloquent, he chides himself. He could lie his way out of this. Emery knew him well, but Brett was still… Brett. He could talk his way in or out of most things. But he’d come here for a reason, even if he didn’t want to admit it. He takes off his hat and holds it, kneading the brim as a nervous tic. The detective steels himself, and continues. If his face hasn’t given him away, then his voice surely will.
“I’m a friend, Mr. Hyde.”
He can see all of the expressions on Emery’s face, as each of them pass by. Confusion, worry, the shock of realization, then a steeling of himself, one that doesn’t extend to his voice. “Brett, why are you…?” His voice trails, and Emery falters for a moment, as if there’s too many ways to finish that question to give voice to any of them. Something occurs to him, and in one motion, Emery’s turned to close the door behind him hard, a hat hanging from it falling to the floor. No one moved to pick it up.
When he turns back to Brett, he’s shrugging off his frock coat. It’s on the rack before the next words come. “Are you alright, Detective? Any trouble, with your case?” The detective shakes his head.
“No trouble,” he wryly replies. He continues to mess with the brim, and clears his throat. “I have come to return your tincture.” He takes one hand away from the beloved hat, and begins to dig around in his open coin purse, hung across his frame. He pulls out the tincture, and extends it towards Emery. Part of him wants nothing more to be said. The other part desperately wishes for a comment, any sort of comment, on his appearance.
“I shall be on my way,” he hurriedly says, cowardice winning out. But when he moves to take a step, he can’t. His feet are like lead. He stares, helplessly, at Emery, hand and tincture still extended towards him.
“Take it,” he says. “Please.”
For a moment, when Emery’s hand reaches out, it already feels over. Brett would never buy such a tincture for himself, and with it, the powder and the chemise and the skirt would disappear, and the only fine fabric he would wear would be the kind draped over his shoulders in a suit. It’s almost real.
But Emery does not take the jar. Instead, his hand is wrapped around Brett’s wrist, as if he was trying to keep the detective from bolting straight through the door. “I had a job, and it was urgent. I’m afraid I won’t be needing it.” He says in a calm voice, loosening his grip somewhat. “I bought another one.” He was lying. Brett had seen the vanity with his own eyes, when he’d first checked the home for Emery’s presence. He’d seen the empty space, the hole left by the bottle held in his own hand. And still, the liar speaks, calmly.
“Hold onto it, if only so I won’t have to loan you another the next time you fancy a disguise.” Emery gives a chuckle, letting go of Brett, and taking a half-step back. “I’m sure you can find another use for it, detective, for a case or…” Emery thinks for a moment, as if the words elude him.
“It suits you, Brett.”
Brett smiles, and puts the tincture back in his pocket.