I begrudgingly accompanied Mom to Ermou Street to meet Kris. A wide variety of shops lined the busy street, from antique and art stalls to jewelry shops and luxury boutiques. Kris and my mom were determined to browse in each of the small shops. I was happy to be roaming places at Court that I’d never been to before. It was nice to see the Royal Bar area in the daytime when the long, twisting street was filled with shoppers and not drunkards.

When we got closer to the end of the street, my mom and Kris squealed at the sight of what they both declared to be the best boutique on the Court grounds. I had had about enough of shopping at this stage, but Kris persuaded me to follow them inside. “One more store, Ave. Promise.”

It was wedged between two taller buildings. Despite the old sign with some letters that had rubbed off and become illegible over the years, it was clean and all the clothing was arranged neatly. Kris and my mom basked in the attention of the sales staff and pawed over different fabrics and textures.

“Ave, do you have a dress for the Symposium?”

A Symposium is a party usually led by a feast master. In the old days, the guests wore garlands, but in today’s world, you could wear whatever you wanted. There would be musical performances, acrobats, and dancers who played the kithara.

“She doesn’t.” My mom, who had incredible hearing, answered from across the shop. “I’m trying to find one for her. Do you want to help, Kristen?”

“I would love to, Kath.”

“No, no.” Knowing full well that this meant I would have to spend at least an hour in the fitting room trying on dresses, I shook my head adamantly. “I already have a dress.”

Annoyingly, my mom answered once again, “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I have.”

“What about this purple one, Kristen? Do you think she would look good in it? Or maybe this pink one?” My mom had clearly decided that ignoring me was the best solution. She roamed the aisles and came back with a bunch of dresses draped over her arm.

“Mom, I’m not buying a new dress.”

Kris looked at me and asked softly, “Do you actually have a dress to wear?”

“Yeah. I think I’ll wear that—” I paused and tried to recall the color of the dress my mom had forcefully packed for me. “The cerulean dress I wore on the first day.”

“What?” My mom, who had been sweeping through the rack of dresses, stood on her tiptoes and looked at us over the metal pole. “You’re going to wear that dress again?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to get something new? The Symposium is a big deal,” my mom said.