Tori muttered, “This interruption and the way you’re acting is making me dry up faster than the Sahara.”

“Don’t crab at me, baby. Come. Help.”

May kissed Tori passionately enough that Tori allowed herself to believe in the feelings behind the act. Reluctantly, she sat up, swung her legs down by the side of the bed, and picked up the articles of clothing that lay in a heap.

Undergarments, a semi-elastic sleeve of mesh backed by silk that extended from armpit to the bottom of the hips, then the long-sleeved top and leggings she had to roll up. May’s entire body was muscular, lean.

No. With the costume going on, she was approaching the threshold of becoming March, rather than May.

With this stupid vendetta-slash-obsession, she was well past that threshold. This was when she ceased being Tori’s May and became Foil’s March.

She was bitter, but she tried not to let it show. When March was going to battle, the wrong words and sentiments could put the wrong ideas into her head. There was that slim risk that a moment’s doubt at the wrong time could lead to a critical and terminal error.

Paralyzing.

But she’d known what she was getting into with May. She’d been forewarned and reminded time and time again. It was stupid to have any illusions.

With leggings and long sleeved top on, it could have been a rather plain skintight costume. The pants and jacket were next.

March, probably conscious of time, picked up her own belt.

Mask. Hat. March took the hat before it was placed on her head, performed a motion where it flipped in the air, and settled onto her head. Her hair was messy, and she had morning breath—more than morning breath—but there was only so much time, and March was mindful of time.

Tori threw on a bathrobe so she would be covered, if not necessarily decent. On a level, being indecent felt like it was important, as if she could remind Foil of where things stood. She put on her coat but left the front undone, and stepped into her boots, following a few paces behind March, who exited. She reached out to tow the door to her hand instead of letting it close.

March spun on her heel, shooting her a wink, using her rapier to blow a kiss.

“No,” Tori said, impulsive, hating herself for saying it. “Take this seriously.”

“I take nothing seriously.”

“Not even me?” Tori asked.

“That’s different.”

“Then prove it,” Tori said, still hating herself. “You say she doesn’t matter?”

“Not in the short term. But a lot of things that don’t matter are still worth messing with.”

“Prove it,” Tori said. “Kill her.”

“But—”

“Or I’m walking away.”

“That’s silly.”

Tori remained silent.

“We’ll get to see how Ixnay’s doing,” March said. She flourished her blade. “Alright.”