“I’m going to see the seamstress,” Aria announces, puffing her chest slightly. “It’s such an honor to be dressed by the same woman who dresses the queen.” She pets Hamar’s arm lightly. There’s no question as to who brought this “honor” about.
“Good, the seamstress seems very talented,” I say mildly, and find a small delight in watching Aria’s expression tilt toward disappointment at my lack of ire toward her being dressed by the same person as me. “In fact, I think you should all get your clothes for the coronation made by her.”
“I’m not getting something for the coronation.” The way Aria stretches her neck, as if she’s trying to compete against my height, is evocative of how I imagine a territorial swan to look. “I’m getting something for the Troupe of Masks.”
“Oh, right, you mentioned
