By mid-morning the palace dressing suite had turned into something between a war room and a circus. Garment bags hung like banners from every hook, shoes lined up in parade rows, and Evrin was at the center of it all, fluttering between racks like a general on too much espresso.
"Buttons, no buttons, high collar, low collar…!" he muttered, already pinning a swatch of silk against Lucas's shoulder. "If we drop the navy cape now, we can bring it back for the balcony. Yes, yes, the balcony will need a second look…"
Lucas sat on the edge of a low chaise, shirt open at the throat, eyes flat with the patience of a man who'd been pinned and repinned for an hour. "Evrin," he said mildly.
"Shh, your lapel is speaking to me," Evrin said, tugging at the hem. "Oh, the texture under these lights will kill! Kill, I tell you. They'll weep. They'll faint."
"I'll faint," Lucas muttered.
