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The curtain swishes to the side, and Lord Marius ducks out. “I am not hiding.”
“No?” I stop at the design table and spread my hands over the cool surface. “Then come through the front door like a normal customer. Your unannounced visits are becoming a tiresome habit, one that is affecting my business.”
He stares down his long nose at me. “I believe I already stated I do not wish to test Nickodemus.”
I refuse to back down. “At least make an appointment so you don’t scare away my employees.”
“Yes, your little spy network.” He adjusts the white robe that billows around him. “How is that going?”
I stiffen at his casual dismissal of a lucrative venture. “Better than when I stayed at The Harbor. There is more anonymity here.”
He dips his head in acknowledgment. “It’s a clever front.”
It’s not a front. I take both sides of my business seriously, but I bite back that retort. He will believe what he wants. “If you’re here for more gossip about Merri, you will have to ask for it.”
“I’m here for a fitting.” He arches one brow. “Is that not the process when one orders a suit from your shop?”
“Fine suits take time, even ones destined for High Lords.” I grit my teeth together. “The standard turnaround time is at least a week.”
“Ah, but it’s ready nonetheless. You are not the only one with eyes and ears.” He glances toward the cabinet system where I store works in progress. “Don’t make me wait, or your little network might sell their secrets somewhere else.”
I bristle as the truth of his words stings. Spies who can be bought by me can be bought by others. To lose them over pride would be foolish.
“Very well.” I stride to the drawers.
I slide open the one that contains Lord Marius’s order, the well-oiled glides whispering of the craftsmanship that went into the piece of expensive furniture.
With a practiced hand, I retrieve the suit, the dusky-blue with onyx accents shifting color beneath the overhead lights. The fine threading disappears, the panels lined up to perfection so that they flow seamlessly together.
It’s a masterpiece, one that befits the status of the man standing before me. I worked overtime to finish it myself, not trusting my staff with something so important.
I carry the pieces to the table. “Be careful when you try this on. Not all of the stitching is final.”
Lord Marius steps closer, his golden eyes glinting as his fingertips graze the lapel with reverence.
“Exquisite.” He takes the pieces with care. “Your skill continues to astound, Darius.”
The praise warms something deep within my chest, but I quench it quickly, schooling my features into neutrality. “Thank you, my lord. Once you have changed, come back out, and I will check the fitting and make adjustments.”
He nods but lingers a moment longer, examining the hand-stitched lining, the silk supple beneath his touch. “It’s remarkable how life twists and turns. Once, you were a guard at the court, and I—a minor lord with minor influence.”
“Times change.” The words come out curter than intended, but my recent torture at the order of the lord I had served dirties the memories of my service.
It’s not something I enjoy lingering over now.
Lord Marius’s head lifts, his gaze piercing. “Did you dream of this when you were a guard? Of becoming a tailor?”
“Sometimes. I found inspiration in the court robes, both the beautiful and the horrific. The gardens, too, offered unlimited ideas.” I look away from him. “In more fanciful moments, I planned a bonding robe for Merri…”
“I never would have approved such a thing, back then.” Regret and longing underscore the admission. “Her mother would have given you her blessing, though, even against my wishes. To think, I might have seen one of Merripen’s weddings.”
He clears his throat and turns on one heel. “I will be back out in a moment.”
The curtain closes behind him with a whisper of heavy velvet, and I turn back to my workbench. My fingers, still warm from handling the silk, find the cool metal handle of the bottom drawer. It slides open with a hush, the stack of sketchbooks it holds older than the ones on the shelves.
I trace the cracked cover of the oldest one, the leather the color of dried blood and the threads that stitch the papers together fraying. After the label of Oathbreaker was rescinded, I reclaimed my few possessions left at court.
They had been stuffed into a box and forgotten until I filed a claim for them. Demons never throw away what could hold value in the future, and their filing system made it easy to find and deliver to my doorstep.
