He ran his hands through his hair and puffed out his cheeks, thinking this over. On the one hand, he didn’t want to be completely embarrassed, and if the Doll had noticed that his clothing was “inadequate,” then he might be the equivalent of a stablehand at a High Feast. Ludicrous. Maybe dangerously so, because the one thing he did not want to do was leave the impression that he was to be treated like trash.

Not good.

“Can I ask for modifications to that idea?” he said, finally.

“As you will,” all three of them said at once.

“An adequate but simplified wardrobe,” he stated. “Cut ornamentation to a bare minimum. Absolutely nothing that stands out. Austere, if you understand. Very conservative.”

The three of them then turned to face each other in a little huddle, and stood there in long silence for a very long time.

“Milord, what are they doing?” Beltran asked. The lad didn’t seem to be as nervous now, a fact that spoke well of him.

“Conferring with each other, I suppose?” he hazarded, just as Clover turned back to face them.

“This can be done,” the Doll stated. “And it can be done for the Duke’s companion—”

“Beltran,” the lad said firmly. “Call me Beltran. I’m the Duke’s Herald and acting secretary.”

“Ah!” Rose exclaimed. “Yes, this can be done for Beltran, now that we know your rank.”

“A conservative wardrobe will be even easier to fabricate,” said Star. “We will have it after luncheon.”

“Then let this be done,” he said, and felt some tension draining out of him. “Just one thing. Boots, not shoes.”

“As you will,” said Clover . . . with just a faint hint of disapproval.

He smiled. “Now about that bath—”

“If the Duke will come to the chamber—”

“And the Duke will undress himself, if you please,” he said firmly.

Was there a hint of a sigh?

“As you will,” said Star.

—

The best way to keep one’s mind off troubles, at least in Delia’s experience, was to work. And since Jonaton and the Six needed her to “anchor” them while they made that temporary Gate for Ivar, as soon as Kordas and the tribute-train had gone through the Gate to the Capital, the subterranean workroom was where she took herself.

All seven of them were already there, muttering and disagreeing and then agreeing again, and doing things with herbs and stones and bits of string and candles and chalk that all made no sense whatsoever to her.

“Is Isla going to help?” she asked, once there was a lull in the proceedings.