When the key turns in the lock and the door opens, Ettie is suitably frightened.

Moon-Face comes in all smiles. “Well, look at the two of you, so clean and neat.”

I glare at her, but she ignores me. Two new maids, armed to the teeth with torturous-looking devices, follow her in. Ettie’s eyes sparkle with excitement as they go at our heads again with brushes, combs, and a variety of oils. Ettie seems to enjoy her styling, whereas I feel like they’re torturing my head. She ends up with her golden curls tamed into something called à la grecque. I am given a more demure style of loose waves piled at the back of my head. Then we’re both liberally sprayed with yet more scent, which sends us into cascading sneezes. A lady in a gigantic dress of bright yellow enters the room; her face is painted white, and she wears a white curled wig almost double the size of her head, upon which are perched several mustard-colored butterflies and a parrot.

“Madame Gelada,” says Moon-Face, “royal dresser from the Grand Mogol.”

The Mogol is the fanciest dress shop in the whole city; I know, since I’ve had to … borrow some of her creations before as disguises. The yellow lady surveys us calculatingly. She is followed into the room by an entire retinue of men and women wearing different shades of yellow and carrying brightly colored boxes of varying sizes.

Madame Gelada delicately seats herself on a small pouf and claps her hands. Her servants get to work opening boxes of underclothing, and Madame selects the garments.

We’re draped in chemises and culottes, silk stockings embroidered with tiny flowers, followed by corsets with velvet stays tied so tightly I can hardly breathe. The skirt hoops are so large, three people could hide under them.

Next come dresses of every shape and color. From pale ivories to bright scarlets, some embroidered with silk thread, others festooned with beads and sequins that catch the light and shine. Ettie gasps as she surveys the wondrous creations. But Madame has little time for our opinions. One look at us and she’s already chosen: Ettie gets a dress of pale blue, and I one of dusty rose. They’re dropped over our heads, fastened, straightened, and smoothed. The servants pull out ornate brass needles and thread of every color, instantly matching it to fabric and stitching hems, waistlines, and sleeves.

When they are at last done, Madame gives a short nod to show she’s pleased with her work, and departs, leaving behind a flurry of boxes, tissue paper, and servants to pack up, all without having said a single word to us.

“We look so fine!” Ettie says once the servants have scurried out the door.

I snort. As if I care about looking fine. My gown has only the barest strip of cloth on the upper arm—where am I meant to hide my dagger?—but Ettie is dragging me to a mirror and forcing me to look at us side by side.