Her gaze flickers over to the piano, then she shifts over to examine the fabric more closely. 

The fabric has a bit more color variance than the jewelry did, and is quite a bit brighter; violets and burgundies, various shades of silver with the occasional edge into proper gold, blues that edge into the color of the open sky on a sunny day, pale pinks and even one deep crimson that looks very much like blood. Some of them have patterns to them, some of them shimmer like silk, some are laced, some are transparent, and some are simple bold splashes of color, painting the world around them.

That's one thing gone well for once, then. 

... she has what she needs. Even if the sewing kit doesn't have scissors, she can make do. 

A swatch of golden cloth, and a swatch of darker silver. The burner from the lab. Fine silver and black thread, a sharp needle, and - yes, a good sharp pair of fabric shears. The thunderous chain, held oh-so-carefully in alchemist's tongs. 

She spreads out the burgundy robe upon the smooth floor of the apartment, and lays a hand atop its breast to ask permission. It's brave, and wild, and deserves better than to be confined in a shape like this, a muddlesome practical thing, all flop and wobble. It wants to be something grander.

Still, change is always painful. She asks, as is her duty.

The robe's shape is a bit off for it - something in the cut, something in the style, like the person who made it was torn between two different ideals and couldn't quite decide which they wanted. The shoulders are broad, with careful stitching to preserve the shape, but the sleeves don't capitalize on the opening they've been given. They're just long simple tubes, not right for the invoked style at all, not if you want to do it right. The lower portions are similar, there's not enough shaping here, it's practical and straightforward but it's not correct.

Its stitches are neat and even, sewn by a steady hand, but are large enough that it's quite easy to remove them. The seams come apart quite easily after that; there's a bit of a fold where the fabric was hemmed, but there's no discoloration present.

She has a lot of work to do.

Cut like from like and make anew. 

One is one is one is two. 

She takes her shears and cuts a line, 

And forms the coat and makes it fine, 

And laughs and smiles and cuts again, 

For she's just seen her new skirt's hem - 

And with a flourish of her thread,

And careful tilting of her head, 

And button-knots and silver stitch, 

She comes to scratch that new-coat itch, 

And makes a coat with ragged cuff

and black lapels who've seen enough, 

frayed and tattered and grand and wild

and far too big to fit a child! 

A player's coat for on the stage

and all that's needed now is rage. 

Thundrous steel, spinning wheel, 

burn your anger out and heal, 

give the player's hands your thunder, 

on the keyboard bring your wonder, 

flash and roll upon his wrists, 

play the keyboard with his fists! 

Now only one thing left to do, 

heat the needle, hold it true, 

scorch the sullen red of cloth

burn the mark of player's troth, 

a treble clef in grand aspect, 

so all can pay proper respect.

The needle scorches tender skin, 

she pricks herself where cloth is thin,

she's tired, burned out, fraying now, 

her stomach growls in discontent, 

when did her needle become bent?

Slowly she wakes, the coat is done, 

her rhythm stumbles and is gone.

She gets up. She pours water over her stinging fingers. She takes down one of the friendly glasses and drinks. She eats sweet bread from the basket, not bothering with a plate, and smiles and licks her fingers since everyone here is a friend and she can do that among close company.

Finally she turns to survey her work. 

The coat sprawls lazily across the floor, looking for all the world as if it had just decided to take a rest. She doesn't recall giving it gold epaulets, but it certainly has them now. It fills the room with its presence, all ragged and tattered and misstiched and stormfilled: she smiles at the lightninglike scorchmarks where her burning-needle slipped. 

It certainly is what she sewed it to be, all flair and drama and circumstance and show, but it's no proper houseguest. After all, she did promise it a stage. 

She goes down to the storage room and stares at the piano. 

... nothing for it but to do the hard work, she supposes. 

She starts clearing a path to the door.

Clearing a path is tricky, and a few things need to be moved out onto the street to manage it, but the feat is definitely possible.

The piano itself.... is very heavy. Luckily it has wheels, but it also has two legs that might not fare well in a move.

She pulls cautiously, then with all her might.

The piano barely budges.

Well. That won't do. 

Heavy, bulky, and delicate. The perfect combination. 

Out the door, down the windy, cobblestone street, up a step to the airy place, through another door, and then across the flagstones. 

... this is going to take more than she has right now. 

She needs she needs what does she need... 

She needs a way to shift the piano. She needs a way to keep the delicate legs from taking any of its weight. She needs a way to cover the cobblestones and the step and make the way to the airy place smooth. She needs a way to keep the piano stable while she's moving it. 

She has sturdy staffs, soft pillows, and a blanket. She needs smooth, solid floor and something strong for binding. Ideally she would have a mover's dolly to put the piano on, but that's terribly unlikely at best.

She takes the empty box to the airy place, throws the player's coat over it, and sets the violin atop it. 

It'll have to do for now.

She puts back every homeless box she took out of the storeroom. 

She goes up to the apartment, and makes her bed on the unforgiving floor. It hardly bothers her: after all, the books deserve the bed more than she does.

She sleeps.

It's hard to tell how long she sleeps, but it is deep and dreamless and restful. Nothing disturbs her.

When she wakes, most everything in the apartment is just as she left it, with only a single exception. The two coins she placed on the bookshelf seem to have moved elsewhere. In their place, a set of silver spectacles sits, a crack marring one of the lenses.

She rolls over onto her back, and sits up carefully, one hand pressed in just above her hip. She winces, then pats the stone floor. 

She rubs sleep from her eyes, and looks around. 

She sees the cracked spectacles where her coins were left.

She digs her nails deep into the blankets, and stares. 

She takes a deep breath, and smooths out the crease she's put in the sheet.

Then she stands, folds the glasses neatly - it's not their fault for existing - and places them atop a pile of books. 

She takes two more lavender coins from the bag and replaces the ones on the shelf. 

Then she meticulously checks over every drawer and every corner and every cupboard. Beneath the rug, between the wall and the bed, the contents of the sewing kit. If anything else has changed, she has to know.

The coins are the only things that have been changed throughout all the bookplace. Everything else is just as she left it; every cup and fork, every spool of thread, every scarf and dress and robe and book.

She lets out a breath, and a little of the tension goes from her shoulders. 

She opens the door to the alleyway.