NINE
"It's eight-fifteen," Portia announces, storming into the bathhouse, a hair brush and hair pins in her hands.
"I'm well aware of the time."
"Then you must also be aware of how quickly you're running out of it. You haven't even done your hair."
Grunting, I grit my teeth and attempt to tie the sheer lilac tunic at my shoulder for the umpteenth time. I can't get it to feel comfortable. I can't get it to sit correctly.
Cursing under her breath, Portia throws the hair brush and pins into the basin and slaps my hands away from the fabric.
I drop my hands and watch as she effortlessly ties the a-line tunic the way it's meant to be tied.
"Why are we dressed like this?" I ask, eyeing up the floor-length tunic.
Its neckline plunges to my sternum, and my n*****s are distinguishable
