“Joy in clothing is a gateway vice,” he would mutter, confiscating a hat with a single, lonely feather. “Next, you’ll be wanting pockets shaped like animals.”
Each day, she appeared in a new outfit that was, technically, perfectly legal. frivolousdressorder
The law was enforced by the Lord Chancellor of Modesty, a man named Bartholomew Pence whose own wardrobe consisted of a single, grey woolen tunic. He patrolled the cobblestone streets with a pair of iron shears, snipping any ruffle, bow, or unnecessary button he deemed "emotionally excessive." “Joy in clothing is a gateway vice,” he
The only one who didn’t dance was Bartholomew Pence. He sat on the palace steps, wearing his grey tunic, looking at his empty hands. He had spent so long cutting the frivolity out of others, he had forgotten how to put any into himself. He patrolled the cobblestone streets with a pair
“On the contrary,” Celia said, spinning. The ribbons flew out in a perfect golden ratio. “It demonstrates the irrationality of a circle’s circumference to its diameter. It is a dress of pure, unassailable logic.”
Within a week, the kingdom of Ardore became the most sensibly-dressed nation in history. Silk stockings were burned in bonfires. Lace was torn from collars and repurposed as fishing nets. The milliners, those architects of whimsy, closed up shop and fled to the mountains.
“Bartholomew,” she sighed, watching a courtier walk past in a beige shift. “Is there no one with a scrap of originality?”