“Why not give her the satisfaction? What would it matter? You would get a good price for the clothes.”

“I have my pride.”

“You have too much pride,” he said. He studied the painting and drank his tea. The mood in the room changed, became settled and sad. He opened his mouth to speak, looked over at me, and closed it again. I asked him if he was all right. He nodded. “I think…I believe it may be time for me to see a matchmaker.” He sat staring at Liro’s painting. He didn’t look at me while he said it, and he didn’t look at me afterward to gauge my reaction.

I was stunned. “Why?”

“Solitude wears on a man.”

“But Liro…”

“Liro is in the City.”

It felt wrong to me. I had no right to feel any way about it, certainly, as it was his life and not mine, but it felt wrong to me nonetheless. It seemed unfair to Liro. It seemed unfair to whatever match was made for him. “You would be happy with a Semadran match?” I asked carefully.

He glanced over at me. Surprise lit his face. “Ariah, what a forward question.”

I stared into my teacup, red and flustered. “I’m sorry.”

“If it’s a good match,” he said, “it’s a good match.” Dirva studied The Reader for a long time. He sighed and took our emptied cups to the sink. When I returned to the apartment after my classes the next day, The Reader was gone. The wall was empty. All that remained was a pale square on the wall, an impression that it had once been there. In its wake, Dirva’s apartment felt drab and lifeless.

* * *

The vanity that drove me into Sorcha’s clothes in the first place drove me to Parvi Doshah’Vanya’s tailor shop. It was located on the fringes of the Semadran borough, as far out as a Semadran could reasonably set up shop and still stay safe. The streets there were wide enough to accommodate rickshaws. Qin and Semadrans walked the street in equal numbers. Shayat looked like her father. The man who answered the door was tall and taut, and he had the same deep black skin. He wore Qin robes in a peculiarly Semadran way, just like his daughter.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I don’t have an appointment,” I said.

“I know. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I have need of a tailor.”

His eyebrow raised slightly. “Yes. Yes, it would seem so.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Shayat!”

I could have died. I began to giggle instead. The door creaked open a little wider, and Shayat Bachel’Parvi stuck her head through the door. “Yes, Papa, that’s him. Evening, professor.”

“Hmm. I see what you mean,” said the tailor. I looked up, horrified, offended.