At the sound of her name, my little dragon looked up and sent a questioning spurt of fire.

“Rude,” Ilina agreed, and together we got up to take another look around the apartments, noting the differences between our rooms and the wardrobes full of clothes someone had chosen for us. All the dresses were cut in what I assumed was the imperial style, with long, loose sleeves, tight bodices, and flowing skirts. And for those who wore shirts and trousers, those were of similar cuts, elegant and expensive. Aaru, for his part, opened his wardrobe and closed it right away—even though everything inside was suitably subdued. It was all just so expensive. Meanwhile, Chenda had already changed into one of the dresses.

“Nine must have given them our measurements.” Chenda smoothed the green brocade down her ribs. “If I didn’t like this dress so much, I’d be unsettled.”

Gerel didn’t say anything. She just sat on the sofa in their private parlor, admiring Chenda as she turned to get a better look in the mirror.

Lunch came, and we were all summoned to the big dining room, where Alusha stood at the head of the table. “Tonight, you will all attend dinners with different officials. I will explain the proper way to take a meal with such esteemed company. Pay attention, because your performance reflects on me. If you make fools of yourselves, you make a fool of me. Furthermore, I do not care what customs are similar or different. I’m not here to learn about your vanishing islands.”

She wasn’t here to be the least bit tactful, either.

Still, I didn’t want to embarrass myself, so I paid close attention as she went over the multitude of rules: who took the first bite, what order to eat the food, and even the proper (by imperial standards) way to wipe one’s mouth.

The level of protocol made the most formal state dinners at home seem casual, but I, at least, had some background in eating while obeying dozens of unspoken rules. Chenda and Zara, too. The others struggled a little more, but everyone tried.

Once lunch was finished, attendants whisked me back to my rooms to dress for my meeting with the empress, filling my head with more protocol and advice as they worked. They washed and combed my hair, brushed creams and powders onto my face, and scrubbed and painted my nails. Then, at last, they said I was ready.

I emerged from my suite, glittering in the uneven light of a hundred sigils. The gown was possibly the finest thing I’d ever worn, though I wouldn’t dream of telling my old seamstress. The fitted bodice was gold and blue silk, a topaz-beaded sun burning on my abdomen, with spiraling rays of light emanating outward. The skirt—the deep blue of a sea at midnight—flared off my hips and swirled around my ankles. The stiffer brocade of my bodice descended down the back, all the way to the floor, to create the illusion of a heavy golden cloak over the lighter silk.