Bren comes to fetch us an hour before sundown, as promised.
He steps through the door after his signature knock and stops in his tracks, staring at me.
Lirika and I are seated on the cushions before the table, sharing a pot of mint tea. We’ve packed everything up, returned the padlock I practiced on to its home, and are only passing the time now, waiting for him to arrive.
Bren’s jaw drops in shock, his gaze roving over my hair—barely finger length up top, cut even closer along the sides of my face and in back—and then drops to the rest of me.
“Are you—are you wearing my clothes?” he asks, voice strangely hoarse.
clothesLirika leans back. “They suit her, don’t you think?” she asks cheekily.
The tunic fits surprisingly well, especially with the cloth binder Lirika improvised for me. T
