September 21st

The new Clock Tower, a marvel of architectural style and timely design, had its dedication and First Chiming ceremony on Saturday last. In attendance were all the usual persons of note, as well as esteemed reporters from The Epistle, my colleague from The Spectacle, and of course, myself and other representatives from this distinguished publication (much reporting from the evening is scattered through this issue: an architectural review of the new Clock Tower can be found on page nine, and an amusing musing about the mechanics is on page twenty-three). But I beg my readers will not flip their pages just yet, and allow me to present first my own humble observations of the event.

Several government ministers made several government speeches, and a special certificate from Her Majesty was presented to The Architect and The Engineer in recognition of their achievements. But this was entirely overshadowed by The Lord High Chancellor of Clocks, who initiated the First Chiming dressed in an exquisite new suit crafted from the finest moments in time. The design, cut precisely by the hour, ticked all the requirements of good taste. Although The Lord High Chancellor is not quite as svelte as he once was (several extra minutes stretched across his middle), he nonetheless struck a most elegant figure. The stitching was so fine as to be invisible, and this author dares speculate that, if one were to measure, one would count not the standard sixty seconds per minute, but sixty-thousand milliseconds per minute—a masterpiece of punctual precision.

Naturally, such craftsmanship could only come from the workshop of The Tailor, whose lauded atelier has recently relocated to Needle Street, just across from the celebrated workshop of The Weaver. It would be vulgar to speculate at the cost of such a magnificent garment, but one can guess The Lord High Chancellor is out several years at least.

Missing from the evening’s soiree was The Mathematician, who has not made a social appearance since last month’s highly successful Lecture Series (delivered, as my readers may remember, in a lovely gown of advanced calculus that many considered a greater triumph for The Tailor than the Lecture Series was for The Mathematician), and The Dowager Grand Duchess, whose gout has left her abed these last two weeks.

                 November 3rd

The Royal Symphony hosted its annual gala evening last night, a marvelous affair attended by nearly half the population of the City. The programme included several symphonies by Composers past, as well as a new piece from The Composer, a more avant-garde number that nonetheless drew great applause from the audience. But I will not toy with my readers, who can find a musical analysis of the evening in this morning’s edition of The Classical Companion if they so desire. I know my duty and thus my full report of the fashionable goings-on is as follows.

The latest trends were all on display, with several young ladies seated in the galleries wearing gowns cut in a sprightly triple meter, a most agreeable new style that has dominated the fashion press this season. It was the cause of great delight to many young gentlemen seated in the boxes, who made numerous comments on how pleasingly the notes of the waltz highlighted the ladies’ upper beats. And who can blame their eyes for straying to the galleries, when the wealthy debutantes filling the boxes were mostly draped in standard sonatas. Although one cannot fault the sonata form, it must be said that the steady 4-4 time adopted by most was rather dull when displayed next to some of the more exciting, modern meters.

The Lady High Minister for Sport was accompanied in her box by The Painter who, in his usual bohemian flair, wore a rather confusing polyphonic concerto that seemed to be in both 5-8 and 7-16 time. The ensemble attracted many strange looks, but The Painter was far too preoccupied with the glissando in The Minister’s gown to care.

The Dowager Grand Duchess wore the same dreary dirge she has worn to every symphony gala since the passing of The Grand Duke some thirty years ago. Although woefully out of date, it was still far more agreeable than the overwrought elegy donned by The Widow of The Late Lord High Chancellor of Clocks. The attendance of the latter was not unremarked upon. Given the tastelessness of The Late Chancellor making such an untimely death, and that but a few minutes were all that was left of his estate after debts and duties were paid, one wonders how his wife would be willing to show her face and in such a costly ensemble. (If one were interested in petty gossip, my colleague at The Spectacle will no doubt have published a dubious theory.)

But the best dressed of the evening was without a doubt The Conductor, who debuted a new commission from The Tailor—a stunning symphonic frock in G Major, trimmed with quarter notes and eighth notes arranged in playful triplets that harmonised with every forceful swoop of her baton. Her hair was festooned with particularly rare notes, found only above the staff of the treble clef, including a most spectacular G above High C that dazzled with such clear, pure tone as could only be produced by a true maestro.

The Tailor himself, cutting a striking figure in a crisp suit with lapel points so sharp one worries for the safety of his valet, was in attendance to witness the performance of his latest masterpiece and view the parade of lesser fashions on display. He was never without attention, and several patrons took advantage of this rare social appearance to beg a commission, attempting to forego the endless waiting that must normally be endured for coveted entry into his atelier. But The Tailor was blind to all finery and social capital thrown his way, for his piercing eyes never left the figure of The Weaver all night. For her part, The Weaver—draped in a sharp new gown trimmed in layers of knife-pleated ruffles that nearly sliced several ankles later in the evening as she whirled around the dance floor—was seen to make several meaningful glances at The Tailor, and obliged him in two dances during the night’s gala.

The acquaintance of The Tailor and The Weaver is, of course, well known. They are regular conspirators on the creation of society’s most spectacular fashions, and The Tailor has often declared that The Weaver is the only craftsperson in all the world who can produce material worthy of his creations. But sources say there was a particular softness to The Tailor’s gaze, a hint of a blush on The Weaver’s cheeks. Is this the first bloom of love? Is a ray of romance shining down upon Needle Street? I, and my readers, await future news with bated breath!

                January 5th

What a dreary time it is! The gloom of January has dulled all social goings-on, and with high society taking refuge in cozier country houses, the gossip of the city is as colourless as the weather. What little I have to report is barely worth the price of the ink, but, unlike some of my colleagues in the press who seem to think this a perfect time for a holiday, I shall not neglect my journalistic duty, and so I present today’s tidbits and beg my readers forgiveness.

The Admiralty hosted a dinner for Officers and their spouses on Tuesday evening. It is said that The Admiral donned a new gown crafted by The Tailor, although I find it incomprehensible that she would choose to debut The Tailor’s work on such a dull and insignificant evening. My sources describe a gown of crystal-blue salt water, the skirt draped in waves which crashed into delicate sea-foam trimmings. The Admiral was overheard to praise the versatility of the gown, which made a most charming and practical daytime ensemble at high tide and a stunning evening gown at low tide. This author does not claim to be an expert at what must certainly be the very difficult job of commanding the entire Royal Navy, and yet, surely anyone in a position of such gravity would know the importance of timing one’s fashion to the appropriate season. Surely the spring regatta would have been a more fitting occasion?

On the romantic happenings of Needle Street, I can offer one tasty morsel. An associate passing down the lane on his way back to the office after The Conductor’s funeral (apparently a rather ostentatious affair with a ludicrously large coffin, a vulgar choice given what was left of The Conductor could easily have been buried in her baton box), spotted The Chief Astronomer leaving The Tailor’s atelier in a great excitement. I dare speculate that perhaps a grand gala at the Astronomical Society is in our near future, and likely attendees should begin planning their attire now.

Shortly after The Chief Astronomer’s exit, The Tailor was seen to cross the street and enter The Weaver’s workshop. While this would normally hardly be of note, my associate did report that before entering the workshop The Tailor took a moment to check his reflection in the window and make a small but pleasing adjustment to his hair—as one might do if one were trying to catch the eye of their paramour.

The Dowager Grand Duchess is abed again with gout.

                April 22nd

The City has shaken off its wintery gloom in favor of the freshness of spring. Flowers are abloom, birds chirp their cheerful song, and society has returned to make merry. Last Friday saw the first great occasion of the season, an evening of dining and dancing hosted by the Astronomical Society. My loyal readers may remember my speculation at the possibility of some such event, based on a stray observation of The Chief Astronomer patronising The Tailor back in January. I am most pleased to have been correct in my assumptions!

Representatives from many publications, esteemed and otherwise, were present to provide reportage to those neglected from the guest list. I observed my venerated associate from The Epistle spending several minutes interviewing the Under-Secretary of Telescopic Affairs; scientifically-minded readers will greatly enjoy the transcript to be published in tomorrow’s edition. And my colleague from The Spectacle was also present, conflating journalistic duty with drinking champagne (although the latter was approached with far more zeal than the former ever was).

For my own readers, I can report that all of high society and their associated hangers on were in attendance, glittering with the majesty of the heavens. Even The Dowager Grand Duchess, dressed in a stately twilit atmosphere, was coaxed from her bed.

The assembled parties had many sartorialities of note, but none were half so fine as The Chief Astronomer, who dazzled in a new suit by The Tailor cut from the blackest night and delicately interwoven with shimmering constellations that sparkled as brightly as the stars in The Chief Astronomer’s eyes. His cravat, a hazy galaxy spiraling around his throat, was the cause of many envious glances. I would not be surprised if we were to see more gentlemen tying their own cravats in this elegant, helical manner in the coming days! The Tailor, in attendance with The Weaver on his arm, looked particularly pleased to see his creation displayed during such a sensational soiree. The Late Admiral would have done well to take note, had she not been lying in state at the bottom of the ocean.

The Tailor was naturally the recipient of much praise, but all accolades were charmingly demurred as he insisted that the true genius behind The Chief Astronomer’s new suit was The Weaver. After much coaxing from the many admirers within her orbit, she was obliged to describe how she carefully captured threads of starlight, weaving them gracefully through the velvety blackness of night on her loom, creating a cloth of constellations so wondrous that The Tailor could hardly bear to cut into it.

                  June 8th

Joyous news! The Tailor is a bachelor no more, having wed The Weaver yesterday afternoon! The wedding party arrived at the church around eleven, and afterwards enjoyed a small reception in the solarium of their new home (formerly the residence of The Late Chief Astronomer, who bequeathed his handsome lodgings to The Tailor and The Weaver in his will). Although this was a private occasion, I was most honoured to be the sole member of the press to receive an invitation, which I happily accepted with the promise to share with my readers exclusive details of the fashions on display.

The groom was dressed in a stylish morning suit accented with a waistcoat crafted from the most extraordinary material made, of course, by The Weaver. The ingenious fabric, woven as a wedding gift for her beloved, invoked a great symphony of heartstrings conducted with such mastery as has not been seen since last November’s Royal Symphony gala. The illusion was so complete, one could almost imagine that the cloth had been woven from real heartstrings! (I hesitate to offer such morbid thoughts on such a happy occasion, but assure my readers that I intend them only to be of the most complimentary nature, a testament to The Weaver’s skill at the loom. I was not able to ascertain what materials had been used to create such a realistic effect.)

The bride, aglow in happiness, wore a breathtaking gown stitched by The Tailor. When asked where he sourced such an abundance of material, The Tailor quipped that it was not hard to gather, as any who beheld The Weaver had their breath taken away and it was easy enough to collect it from the floor afterwards. I was afforded a brief close-up as I offered my well-wishes to the couple, and can report that the light breath, so expertly stitched, gave a whiff of excitement and adventure, like the gasps of delight as a sailor rides the waves and wind, surging across an open sea. The Dowager Grand Duchess joked to the great amusement of all that the couple must have pulled the caper of the century to acquire enough stolen breath to craft such an elaborate gown.

Completing the bride’s ensemble was an impressively long veil, stretching halfway down the church’s aisle, woven from many years of wedded bliss and delicately embroidered with the countless happy seconds, minutes, and hours spent in the company of love.

The bride carried a bouquet of deep crimson roses, red as blood, and the groom affixed the same in his buttonhole. And it must be said that not even The Dowager Grand Duchess’s diamonds sparkled half as brightly as the stars in the happy couple’s eyes.

After the reception the newlyweds embarked on their honeymoon. I am told that my colleague from The Spectacle was seen at the station, no doubt in an attempt to woo back lost readership with a report of the honeymooner’s travelling clothes. But neither my colleague from The Spectacle nor I could possibly capture in mere words this final glimpse of fashion as the happy couple departed dressed in travelling attire made of the purest love, ensembles that defy all description except to say that all who beheld them felt their souls filled with a transcendent happiness and contentment.

Katy Werlin is an artist, writer, fashion and textile historian, actress, and opera singer. She received her B.A. in Dramatic Arts from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and her M.A. in Visual Culture: Costume Studies from New York University. Her non-fiction and academic writing has been published in Humanities Magazine, The Sondheim Review, Index on Censorship, Clothes on Film, Pièce Détachée, and on her blog, The Fashion Historian. She was also one of the top contributors to Volume 1 of the Encyclopedia of Clothing and Fashion: American Fashion from Head to Toe, and contributed several entries to Volume 4. Outside of academia, she is a passionate theater artist and is regularly involved with her local performing arts scene. Her work as a fashion and textile historian and as a theater artist are combined in her visual art, where she channels these passions into creating historically-inspired garments and modeling them in carefully staged photographs, creating unique characters and stories. Her art explores concepts of storytelling, performance, taking up space, and re-evaluating crafts and concepts that have been traditionally devalued for their association with the “feminine.” She is increasingly interested in more creative interpretations of historical dress, combining multiple different historical aesthetics and styles to tell more fantastical tales. It was while stitching one of these garments that she was inspired to think about clothing made from more intangible materials. She is currently based in North Carolina and is working on her first novel, amongst other artistic endeavors. She can be found on Instagram and Threads at @timetravellingredhead.