“Split the skirt,” I added, “to the knee. We are not chasing geese; we are walking on applause.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And sleeves that kiss the elbow,” I finished. “And pearls, not diamonds; diamonds scream. Pearls argue in whispers.”
She nodded, and the room hummed with small efficiencies—the sound of scissors, the sigh of fabric giving up its old life for a better one. I watched myself in the mirror while the dress found me. It is important, the watching. Power is not an accident; it is rehearsed until it looks like instinct.
“People will talk,” Viola said finally, careful, “if you arrive with His Majesty.”
“People talk when I sneeze,” I replied. “Let them choke on it.”
She laughed, quick and relieved.
A soft knock broke the seam of our focus. Lita, the younger maid, slipped in with a
