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I sighed again, impatiently this time. “You can climb, right?”
We climbed.
Thankfully, he hadn’t bothered to ward every window in the place, and one of the ones in Mircea’s bedroom slid open easily. I ducked inside, Marlowe on my heels, and padded barefoot over to the big wardrobe I’d been told to stay out of. I decided that, since I wasn’t here for me, it didn’t count, and threw open the double doors.
“Oh,” Marlowe said, ’cause I guess he’d never gotten the tour.
I’d been known to borrow Mircea’s shirts as emergency dresses on occasion, so I knew what was in there. Basically, the pick of the great fashion houses of Europe, with a choice few American designers thrown in for good measure. And enough of it to stock a small men’s store.
Self-denial has never really been Daddy’s thing.
“Okay, strip,” I told Marlowe, flicking through the couture. “And tell me what your problem i
s.”
“You!”
I glanced over my shoulder, to see him looking around, as if wondering where to put his muddy coat. “Just leave it in the bathroom.” I nodded at the adjoining room. “And that’s not an answer.”
Marlowe went grumbling off, and I went back to trying to decide what might work as a substitute. It wasn’t as easy as it looked. Because, sure, there was plenty to draw from, but Marlowe had the same issue I did, only not to the same degree. I could wear Mircea’s shirts as dresses because he was six feet tall in his socks.
Marlowe wasn’t.
“How bad are your trousers?” I asked, as Marlowe came out of the bathroom wearing nothing else. Because I guess his shirt had gotten muddy, too. I sized him up.
The coats and shirts would probably fit okay—he was built well enough under the scowl—but the pants weren’t just gonna draw up on their own. He was definitely too short. “You’re too short,” I told him, while he continued trying to clean them, this time with a washcloth.
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about that?”
“I don’t know, but that’s not gonna work.” It really wasn’t. The mud had splattered everywhere when we hit down, and some of the flakes had already dried into little cement nodules. A good dry cleaner might be able to salvage the outfit, but not in time for Marlowe to return to his guests.
I went to the phone.
Burbles picked up, and he was happy to help. No, he was thrilled. He’d never had a request in his entire, long life that pleased him so much, oh my God.
“Great.” I put a hand over the phone, and looked at Marlowe. “What size are you?”
“What?”
“Stop trying to clean those things. They aren’t cleanable. Just tell me your size.”
“I don’t know my size.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know your size? You don’t buy pants?”
“Of course not. I have staff for that.”
“You have staff for buying pants?”
“Trousers.” He looked pained. “Pants are underwear.”
“Thought that was knickers.”
“Those are for women! And yes, my staff buys my clothes!”
I sighed again. I do that a lot around Marlowe. “Then take the damn pants—okay, trousers—off and tell me the size.”
“I can’t.”
