Madam Judith

The Arrival

The boutique door opened with a small chime--soft, refined, almost apologetic. Anca stepped in first, her heels pausing on the threshold. The air was warmer inside, gently perfumed with something floral and faintly resinous. Behind her, Michel closed the door quietly.

She had expected glass and gold, maybe chrome. Instead, the boutique felt like a drawing room lost in time. Velvet drapes in muted emeralds and wine-reds framed the tall windows, and every piece of furniture--sofas, cabinets, displays--looked chosen not for show but for meaning. A mannequin wore a backless dress of sheer ash-blue silk; another was half-covered in something more structured, like an architectural riddle made of satin.

Anca inhaled, then regretted it--her heart was already racing. She glanced at Michel.

He offered her a calm, unreadable smile. "Just breathe. Judith doesn't like rushing."

The mention of her name sent a ripple through Anca's stomach.

They waited in silence. The boutique seemed empty. Then, as though stepping from the folds of the curtains themselves, Judith appeared.

She wore a turquoise dress--light as mist, draped over her full figure in translucent layers. Her skin was pale, her posture elegant. White-blonde hair swept up in a style both maternal and imperious. She moved slowly, without apology, and her gaze landed on Anca like a weight--not cruel, but undeniable.

"So," Judith said, her voice low and cool, "this is your ingénue, Michel?"

Anca stiffened at the word. Judith's eyes narrowed, not unkindly--just intently.

"She wants a dress," Michel replied smoothly. "I thought of you."

Judith's smile was slow and unreadable. "You always do."

She turned toward Anca, offering her a hand--not to shake, but to follow.

"Come, my dear," she said. "You may leave your nerves at the door. But you'll find we dress more than bodies here."

And just like that, Judith turned and began to walk, not looking back once.

Anca hesitated only a second. Then followed.

The Tea Before the Mirror (Revised)

Judith led them past the main showroom to a salon-like corner tucked behind a thick velvet curtain. The space felt intimate, curated--not commercial, but personal. A pair of antique chairs, a moss-green settee, shelves stacked with folded fabrics like rare manuscripts. On a low marble table, a porcelain teapot steamed quietly, as if it had known the hour long before they arrived.

No one poured. Yet everything was ready.

Michel settled with the easy grace of familiarity, crossing one ankle over his knee. Judith remained standing, her posture composed but heavy with presence. Her eyes never left Anca.

"Sit, my dear. Breathe. Let the air settle inside you before it shifts again."

Anca obeyed, smoothing her skirt as she lowered herself onto the edge of the settee. Her movements were careful, uncertain--like someone approaching an altar without knowing the rite.

Judith's gaze lingered, assessing.

"She's very internal," she said softly, more to Michel than to Anca. "Like the ones who take too long to admit they already want to fall."

Michel sipped his tea, unfazed. "You've always had a talent for seeing ahead."

Judith glanced down at the teacups before her. "No. Just a long memory."

Then, to Anca: "You study engineering, yes?"

"Yes," Anca said quickly. "I'm... in my final year."

"For your graduation party," Judith said, more statement than question. "A prom dress."

Anca nodded.

Judith gave a small, almost wistful smile. "I once loved an engineer. Brilliant woman. She designed pressure systems but refused to measure herself. Always said structure was for steel, not people." A pause. "She left me for a simpler shape."

Michel didn't react, but something passed in the silence--like a memory acknowledged without being named.

Judith straightened and looked back at Anca. "So tell me, my dear... do you want to be seen? Or remembered?"

The question landed like a pin pressed gently against the skin.

"I don't know," Anca admitted.

Judith sat down gracefully, the turquoise silk of her dress whispering against the settee. She leaned forward, chin resting on her gloved knuckles.

"Then we'll find out. But understand: I don't just dress the body. That's the easy part." She tapped her temple. "I dress what's underneath. And that... requires honesty."

Anca looked down at her tea, the surface trembling slightly. Whether from the heat or her own hand, she wasn't sure.

Michel broke the silence. "You said you wanted something different. Judith always begins there."

Judith rose slowly. Her presence felt larger now, like her shadow had lengthened across the room.

"Come," she said. "The mirrors are patient. But I am not."

The Mirror Room

The room was quiet when they entered--not silent, but full of intentional stillness. The kind that made every breath feel like an intrusion.

Anca stepped in first, and immediately she was surrounded: mirrors framed in tarnished brass lined the walls, some full-length, some narrow and vertical like watchful eyes. A low platform stood in the center, surrounded by fabric-covered stands and soft lighting designed not to flatter, but to reveal.

Judith didn't speak. She walked slowly to a corner cabinet and opened it with a small brass key drawn from her necklace. Inside, folded silk, gloves, measuring tape, and a pair of heeled sandals, still unlaced. Tools of her art.

Michel took a seat near the door--quiet, composed, legs crossed and hands folded. His eyes followed Judith, not Anca.

Judith turned.

"Take off your coat, Anca. Shoes too. Leave everything on the chair."

Anca hesitated. Her fingers were already at the buttons before she realized what she was doing. She folded her coat over the arm of the chair, stepped carefully out of her flats, then stood barefoot on the wood floor, hugging her arms.

Judith stepped closer--not touching, but close enough that Anca could smell her perfume. Resinous. Clean. Ancient.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" Judith asked softly.

Anca shook her head.

Judith tilted her own.

"I see hesitation pretending to be humility. I see someone taught to achieve, not to occupy. I see a girl who's used to being asked what she knows, never what she wants."

She circled slowly, her turquoise dress shimmering in the warm light.

"You have beautiful ankles. Did you know that?"

Anca blinked. "I--I don't think about them."

"Exactly," Judith said. "You've never been taught to look at yourself. Only to pass through rooms. Solve problems. Hand in things. But you are not a project."

She stopped in front of Anca, face calm but unreadable.

"You are potential. And that makes you dangerous."

Michel shifted slightly, but said nothing.

Judith stepped closer and gently lifted Anca's chin with two fingers--gloved, precise. Not dominance. Not yet. Assessment.

"I will find your lines. The ones you hide under modesty and measurement. And I will dress them in silk and clarity. But first..."

She stepped back.

"You will look. At yourself."

Judith gestured to the central mirror, then walked away--giving her space, and giving Michel a glance that said: Now she begins.

Anca stood, framed in reflection, uncertain where to rest her eyes.

And Judith said, not unkindly, from behind her:

"Don't pose. Don't flinch. Just stand. The mirror won't lie. And neither will I."

Anca stood in front of the mirror, unsure where to place her hands. She folded them in front of her, then let them fall to her sides. She shifted her weight to one foot, then back again. The light above was gentle, but not forgiving. It didn't flatter--it revealed.

The mirror showed her reflection in full: slim shoulders hunched slightly, posture too careful, a waist she always considered too soft, hips she had tried to hide for years with loose cardigans and lab coats. The edge of a bruise on her shin. Her thighs touched.

Judith said nothing for a moment. She simply watched.

Anca felt the weight of it--not cruel, but absolute. Like she was being documented by something more precise than sight.

"You carry your body like a borrowed coat," Judith said at last. "Worn, not claimed."

Anca looked down.

"No," Judith said firmly. "Don't retreat. Look."

She did. Slowly. Face flushed.

Michel didn't move. From the corner of her eye, Anca saw him cross one leg over the other, expression unreadable. Watching, but offering no rescue.

Judith stepped forward again, this time holding a length of seafoam-colored silk between her hands. She let it flow like water over Anca's shoulder--barely touching, just the sensation of weightlessness.

"This," she said, "is not here to hide you. Fabric is not forgiveness. It's invitation."

Anca didn't answer.

Judith's voice softened, but never lost its clarity.

"I had a student once. She was sharp, brilliant. And she hated the way her arms looked in every photograph. Do you know what she said to me?"

Anca shook her head, eyes still on the mirror.

"She said, 'It's not the camera, it's me.' But she was wrong. It was the mirror she carried in her mind. And I broke it for her."

Anca swallowed hard. The silk still lay over her shoulder, cool and deliberate.

Judith met her gaze in the mirror.

"You're allowed to be seen, Anca. You're allowed to be wanted--by yourself, if no one else yet."

The girl's lip trembled, just barely. She tried to speak and failed.

Michel exhaled quietly, like someone watching a solution begin to crystallize.

Judith gave the faintest smile--one that never quite reached her eyes.

"We'll take measurements next," she said gently. "But first, you'll need to let me see who you are underneath your posture."

The room seemed to narrow. Not physically--but in focus. The mirrors, the air, even the hush of Michel's presence faded behind the precise rhythm of Judith's voice.

She moved with silk in her hands like a conductor with a baton. Each step, each pause, part of an invisible score.

Judith circled Anca slowly, not predatory, but methodical. She picked up a tape measure from the side table and let it unroll with a soft snap, though she didn't yet raise it.

"You walk like someone taught not to make noise," she said. "Head slightly bowed. Shoulders rounded inward, like parentheses."

Anca flinched slightly at that. "I--I don't mean to."

"I know. That's the point." Judith stopped behind her. "Who told you you were too much?"

"I don't know," Anca said quickly, defensive out of habit.

Judith waited. The silence was not empty--it was pressurized.

After a moment, Anca added, "No one, really. Not directly."

"Then it was done right," Judith said softly. "The most effective shame doesn't shout. It lingers in dressing rooms and stares in exam halls."

She moved to Anca's side again and gently lifted her arm--not high, just enough to study the slope of her shoulder.

"You're stronger than you think," Judith said, more to the shoulder than to Anca herself. "You have definition here. Useful lines. The kind that carry weight, not decoration."

Anca didn't respond. But she didn't pull away, either.

Michel leaned forward slightly in his chair. His eyes never left Anca--not possessive, not protective. Just deeply attentive. He had seen students recite formulas with absolute confidence. He had never seen Anca like this--exposed, and not intellectually.

Judith stepped in front of her again. She didn't smile, but her expression softened just enough.

"Tell me something," she said. "And answer without thinking."

Anca tensed.

"What?"

"If you could change one thing about how others see you," Judith asked, "what would it be?"

The answer came faster than Anca expected. "That I'm harmless."

Judith didn't blink.

"Do you believe you're not?"

Anca opened her mouth, closed it again. Her voice dropped. "Sometimes I think I could be... something else. But I don't know how."

Judith tilted her head, approving--not of the answer, but of the honesty in it.

"Then let's stop hiding that."

She finally raised the tape and began her measurements--slow, precise, almost ceremonial. Around the waist. Across the collarbone. Down the inner arm. At each point, she murmured the number, not writing it down but committing it to memory.

"You hold tension here," she said as she brushed the tape beneath Anca's ribs. "And here," tracing lightly along the top of her thigh.

Anca flushed but said nothing. Her breathing grew shallower, her pulse visible at her throat.

"It's not shame," Judith continued, "it's readiness. But you've never been asked to name it."

She stepped back and let the silence return.

"You will not be reshaped here," she said at last. "You will be revealed."

Judith looked to Michel, who met her gaze with a subtle nod.

"She's ready," he said quietly.

"No," Judith replied, turning back to Anca. "She's willing. Readiness takes time. But willingness?" She reached out, fingertips just grazing Anca's jaw. "That's all I need."

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Judith stepped away and said simply, "I know what dress she'll wear. She doesn't yet. But it will speak before she does."

The Shower Ritual

Judith moved toward the cabinet, withdrawing a length of pale satin the color of seawater. It shimmered faintly in the warm light, delicate and aloof, like something that could reject its wearer.

She didn't hand it to Anca.

"Before we fit anything," Judith said, folding the fabric over one arm, "you'll need to shower."

Anca blinked. "Excuse me?"

Judith's tone was calm. Final. "The fabric is antique. It absorbs everything--skin, scent, nerves. I will not allow it to be soiled by anything you carried in from the street."

Anca's hands reflexively brushed down her sleeves. "I didn't realize--"

"You weren't supposed to," Judith said, almost kindly. "This is not a transaction. It's a passage."

Anca glanced at Michel for support.

He didn't intervene--just tilted his head. "It's a rule. She observes it with everyone."

Judith added, as if granting a concession, "You may leave your underthings on. If you think you'll still need them afterward."

That stung. It wasn't cruel. But it landed.

Judith moved to a sliding door--almost invisible in the wood-paneled wall--and opened it with a quiet gesture. "Through here. Towels are on the shelf. Soap is unscented. The temperature is fixed. Let the water do the rest."

Anca hesitated. Michel offered a small nod. "Go on. We'll be here."

She stepped through the doorway like crossing into another world.

The shower room was warm, almost oppressively so, mist already clinging to the pale stone walls. Light came from high slits in the ceiling, softened by frosted glass. It smelled faintly of cedar and heat.

Anca undressed slowly, folding her clothes onto a chair in the corner. She caught her reflection in the narrow vertical mirror above the basin--not the full body, just glimpses: a curve of hip, her stomach, the slope of her shoulder. She wasn't used to looking. Not really.

The controls were sleek, unfamiliar. One dial. No numbers. No levers. No adjustment.

She turned it. A heavy jet of hot water erupted overhead--not scalding, but firm and enveloping, like being submerged in a command.

She stepped beneath it. At first it felt too much. But slowly, as the water soaked her hair and flowed down her back, her breath evened. Her skin flushed pink. Her muscles loosened, betrayed by heat.

She let it run over her face, her chest, down the insides of her thighs. No soap. Just water. The kind that takes things away.

But she never stopped wondering--how was the temperature controlled? Could she change it?

She tried the dial. Nothing shifted. Fixed.

That realization bloomed slowly into her chest: she had no control here.

And something in her responded to that--not in rebellion, but in tension. A quiet, startling yes.

She stood, rinsed, waited. Let it all fall away.

And then, without warning, the heat vanished.

From a concealed spout high in the wall, a sharp, pressurized jet of cold water struck her between the shoulder blades. She gasped, nearly slipping, hands flying to the tile for balance.

It lasted three full seconds.

Enough to wake something. Enough to burn something off.

She stood, dripping, shivering slightly--gasping, but awake.

Back in the mirror room, Judith clicked the small silver remote on the side table and set it down with the calm of closing a book.

"She's clean now," she murmured.

Michel, still seated, said nothing. But his eyes were sharp.

When Anca returned, she was wrapped in a towel, her hair twisted into a loose bun. Drops of water clung to her shoulders and collarbone like small confessions. Her skin glowed, but her eyes were cautious.

Judith stepped toward her--not predatory, but deliberate. She raised one gloved hand and touched a bead of water at the base of Anca's throat.

"You did well," she said, her voice low. "Not everyone breathes through the cold."

She turned to the sea-glass satin. Laid it across the padded chaise.

"When you're ready," Judith said, stepping aside, "you'll wear this. And it will not hide you."

Anca looked at the dress. Then at the mirror.

Then at herself.

Intermission

Judith handed Anca the sea-glass satin and gestured toward a screen near the chaise.

"Take your time. No rush. Let the fabric come to you."

Then, turning with a fluid motion, she left the room through a second side door--one Anca hadn't noticed before. It clicked shut behind her with a hush of well-oiled wood.

For the first time, Anca was alone with Michel.

She stood holding the dress, towel still wrapped around her, droplets slipping down her calves, cooling now.

Michel remained seated, legs crossed, arms relaxed on the armrests. Watching her not like a man watching a woman--but like a physicist observing a system under pressure. Curious. Still. Ready.

Anca looked down at the silk. Then up at him. "Did you know she was going to do that? The cold water?"

He nodded slowly. "Of course."

"Why didn't you warn me?"

"Because that would've made it about expectation. Not surrender."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her mind itched to find a safe framework--logic, psychology, analysis. But nothing fit.

She glanced toward the door Judith had vanished through. "Where did she go?"

Michel tilted his head, listening. From somewhere beyond the wall--muffled but distinct--came voices. A conversation, intimate in tone, but too far to make out the words.

One voice was Judith's. The other was a woman's--calm, low, older perhaps. The cadence was slower than Judith's. Patient. Certain. And somehow... warmer.

"Who is that?" Anca asked.

Michel didn't answer immediately.

"She's someone Judith listens to."

Anca turned toward him. "You mean--she's..."

"Above her," Michel said. "In a certain sense."

Anca looked back toward the wall, the voices still humming like a current through the architecture. Something inside her shifted--a realization that even the most powerful woman she had ever met moved within a hierarchy she couldn't yet see.

"She has a dominant," she murmured.

Michel smiled faintly. "Don't we all?"

Anca sat down slowly on the chaise, the dress pooled beside her like breath held in silk. Her hair was still damp. Her spine tense from the shock of cold. But something deeper had begun to soften.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," she said.

Michel leaned forward slightly. "That's exactly why she chose you."

Anca looked at the dress again.

And for the first time, didn't flinch.

The Door Behind the Mirror

The private door closed behind Judith with a hush, muting the air like a velvet curtain falling over a stage.