The stall keeper looks up from his ledger and casts an eye over the man. He is clearly a page of some sort, well kept and handsome. Not that these things matter much when you're selling, but in all honesty, they actually do. Izzy can spot a waste of time from a hundred yards but the careful way the man's fingers draw against the material says genuine interest.

"Three shillings a metre or the bolt for a pound," he answers.

"You have very fine taste," as an addendum, knowing that the cost is dear. His voice carries a soft, smoky rasp, but it isn't employed for any particular reason, it's merely the voice he was given.

Izzy hates market days, but they are a necessary evil. Were it up to him he would have someone here in his stead so he could be a part of the action on the dockyard, but it's harder and harder to find anyone they can trust, and after their last, useless excuse for an employee he's taken up the burden himself. He supposes there are a few perks, the roasted chestnuts across the way are nice and he does enjoy a fair amount of people watching. He just wishes he didn't have to speak to them.

"Understated, yes, but elegant. This cotton has just arrived from the colonies, dyed with imported indigo from the far East. I doesn't need a pattern to speak of it's craftsmanship."