The tailor is a frumpy little man with a pot belly and an oiled moustache. I don’t like him. I don’t like his shop either, the bright blue paint on the walls, the faux-gold tunics he’s making his servants wear. This is a waste of time and money. I’m sure the grimace on my face is making my displeasure clear, but I don’t care. Nobody’s looking in my direction anyway. Also, the room stinks of perfume and it’s giving me a fucking headache.

I’m leaning against the wall, my arms crossed, watching Arcadia peruse the tailor’s off-the-shelf items. She walks down the row of racks on the far end of the room, draping the garments she likes over the arms of a servant following along behind her, so they can be tailored. The tailor is at her side, explaining the style and quality of the garments she’s inspecting. So far Arcadia’s pile consists of half a dozen tunics, three gowns, a few traditional stola and palla, and various other things I can’t identify.

“Ah, Filipo?” she asks the tailor.

“Yes, madam?” he says, in his ridiculous voice.

“I’m attending a special event tonight, and I’m going to be delivering a performance there. Do you have anything that would make me look—” she chews her lip, glancing out the window for a moment. “Worldly? Well traveled? Less like a proper lady, more like I’ve just wandered by on the course of a long journey.”

Filipo the tailor turns to face Arcadia squarely. Then he cocks his head to the side like an overlarge chicken and makes a show of inspecting her body from head to toe, twirling the point of his moustache between his thumb and forefinger.

“My lady, I believe I have just the ensemble. The latest fashion from Tarascon. But I’ll need to measure you first, step up here, please!”

He holds out his arm, gesturing at a short circular platform surrounded by mirrors. His other hand dips down to touch her on the small of her back, to usher her in that direction, and she follows with a smile. When she’s stepped onto the platform, he produces a measuring tape he had tucked away in the sleeve of his toga, unrolls it, and gets to work taking her measurements.

“I thought we were headed for Demeus today,” I say, a bit louder than I intend to.

“Ships leave for Demeus every day,” says Arcadia. “It’ll be fine.”

“Would you raise your arms for me, miss?” says Filipo.

“Ah, yes, sorry.”

She smiles down at him and lifts her arms out to her sides, and he steps up in front of her to loop the measuring tape around her hips, her waist, and her bust, the last of which makes her blush a little. Then he measures the length of her arm, and her neck last of all. “Now if you’ll just wait for a few moments, I shall return with something I’m certain will delight you!”

He turns around, curls his lip derisively when he sees me, and hustles off into the back room. My gaze falls on Arcadia, and her frustratingly lovely smile.

“There’s still plenty of time to get to the port today,” I say. “And leave this foolishness behind us.”

Arcadia's eyes widen. She glances for the door, to see if Filipo is out of earshot, then she leans down to whisper at me. "Do you know how long I’ve waited to be able to do something like this? Six years. Demeus can wait a day.”

“I understand,” I say, and I realize my mistake immediately. Arcadia’s eyebrows are climbing sharply, her eyes hard. “As best I can, I mean. But these people can’t be trusted, and we should be keeping a low profile anyway. Remember what that old witch said? Your parents will send their best after you.”

She rolls her eyes. “They don’t even know we’re gone yet. We’ll have a huge head start.”

“Do you really want to take that risk?”

Arcadia's body trembles a bit as she presses her lips together. Her big green eyes sparkle. "I want to wear something pretty. And I want to be told I'm beautiful. I'm not going to hide myself anymore."

She is beautiful. Doesn’t she know? Didn’t she see herself in the mirror?

I look her in the eyes. “Stand in a nest of serpents and they’ll tell you whatever you want to hear. Till you’re in striking distance, anyways.”

Arcadia inhales, then spits air from her nose like a bull. Her eyebrows furrow as she stares at me. "The lonely truth has been a cord around my neck for years. I'm finally rid of it. I'd rather live the lie."

"I'll be back later!" she shouts toward Filipo in the back room. Then she hops off the pedestal and stomps toward the front door of the shop, pausing at the doorway to turn back and look at me. I meet her gaze, and it softens, but only for a moment.

"I'll see you there, or I won't," she says.