Dorrin’s skin prickled. What kind of design would her uncle have chosen? Something evil no doubt. Durgeon unwrapped the last layer of muslin and lifted out a long roll of blue and silver brocade. “I washed it and stretched it square, then made it up, but when the Order of Attainder came, I was sure I’d lost by it—for he never paid me; said he would pay when he took it to court. Crowns a span, it was, all my cost, but he was not to argue with …”

The cloth shimmered. Against a background of blues shading from dark to pale, star shapes that Dorrin recognized from the cloth around the crown. Those were done all in pale gray and silver. She touched it lightly and felt nothing, no evil at all.

“It would suit you, as well,” Durgeon said. “With your height, and your dark hair. He chose a dark blue lining, you see, but if you chose dark for your formal doublet, I could change that out to pale gray in no time.”

“It’s beautiful,” Dorrin said. She touched it again, lightly. Durgeon began to unfold it on the table.

“You see the wide band of fur on the sleeves. Silver clasps in front. The Verrakai arms embroidered on the back—”

“Is that necessary?” Dorrin asked, stroking the fabric.

“Have you not seen formal court dress—?” he began.

“No, I was never at court,” Dorrin said. “If the stories you heard about me include exile, being disowned by the family, that’s the truth of it.”

“Well, then, my lord—” Durgeon turned the robe, showing her the back. “Every peer displays the family crest on the most formal of court robes—for such ceremonies as this. Every rank has its own required style. Dukes, for instance, have a fur cuff twice as wide as counts, and barons have but a finger-width edge. Your shirts, as a duke, should have wider lace, with gold or silver ribbon threaded through; your doublet will be embroidered on the heart side with the crest, in silver, and the slashes bound in silver cord. Your capelet, for the formal dinners, will have full four fingers of silver braid. And your shoes—” He looked at her boots, the plain black leather she had considered her dress boots, and shook his head. “You were right to stop here, my lord. In Vérella you will not find tailors or cobblers able to fit your work in, but Liam the cobbler can make you court shoes and boots.”

Two days later, Dorrin set off for Vérella with many fewer coins and many more clothes. Shirts, semi-dress trousers, the short trews she would need for the coronation itself, doublets, jackets, capelets, capes, and the formal court robe. Shoes, hose, boots. Her escort had new blue velvet caps with the Verrakai badge to wear when they accompanied her in the palace.

As she neared Vérella, traffic on the road thickened, with wagons and carts bringing in supplies, merchants, travelers. At the city gate, she presented her pass and invitation once more. “There’s no more lodging in the palace,” the officer said. “I’m not sure, my lord, where you’ll stay—the inns are crowded.”