Sastra sat in the large bedroom that they had decided would be hers. Alone. Maybe a week or so ago, it might have been something she found easier to understand. But now it felt wrong. She perched on the edge of the bed, toying with the laces that kept the dark green corsetry in place. She wore a light linen shirt beneath, rather then embrace the scandal of bearing her arms entirely. The cuffs of the pale sage cloth came together neatly at her wrists. Frustrated, she had taken the time to braid her long hair, plaiting it in a crown over the top of her head before it ran in a braid down to the centre of her back. A more practical way of wearing her hair, that she’d adopted from the Lady Knight’s she’d met the year before. Something she had started to practise during her long hours, alone.
