Apr. 6th, 2016

andhiswife: (baroo)
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It's getting colder. Snuggling beneath a blanket with Iman used to feel like something they could just get away with as summer's heat subsided. Now, it's more or less the default. Not that she's complaining - far from it, and she shifts a bit closer to Iman as if in defiance of that entirely hypothetical accusation - but it does serve as a reminder that winter is well on its way, and Greta's fairly certain her current wardrobe is not going to suffice. It's already dipped below freezing a few times. Before too long, it'll start properly snowing. She'll need a heavier coat, and boots - things she can't just knit for herself.

She also might be toying with the idea of trying jeans.

Thusfar, it's been an internal debate. Part of her is mortified by the thought of wearing something so unladylike, but she's less and less inclined to listen to any part of her that still measures things against the yardstick of her own universe. She won't be going back, so why should she trouble herself over what the villagers would think? Women in Manhattan can wear whatever they like. She could wear whatever she likes. She could start dressing for the century she's in, not the one she came from.

Well. She could, if she had the first clue where to begin.

Greta pauses her current knitting project - a scarf for the Balladeer - then glances sidelong at Iman. "How are you for winter clothes?" she asks, her tone as casual as she can make it.

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