Chapter Eight
AudenMy room faces the back of the house, and as such, it’s thoroughly skylighted and windowed. St. Sebastian stands in the fading silver-gold light as I turn on a small lamp and move over to my wardrobe. Most of my clothes are tailored, which is less of a problem in the waist than in the leg, given that Saint is shorter than me. Not by much—but enough that it might show to a discerning eye.
“Where are you going again?”
“Rostam’s,” Saint answers.
“Ah.”
“Um. Is that a bad ah?”
“No,” I say, opening the wardrobe door and moving through the crisply organized wool and cotton. “Rostam’s is rather recherché, in my view, but its affectations tend towards the voguish rather than the stuffy.”
“I’m not sure what that means for clothes.”
“It means,” I say, pulling out a few
