"Help, I'm drowning!" Cherion wheezed, though most of his voice got swallowed by what felt like an avalanche of heavy, midnight-blue velvet that smelled faintly like cedar and very expensive, suffocating steam. "Reiner, tell them. I'm actually…hrgh…being buried alive."
He wasn't exaggerating. Okay, maybe a little. The Valtrane estate's drawing room had turned into a humid, chaotic war zone of high fashion, and Cherion was the unfortunate battlefield.
Marielle, who was usually calm, was currently in what Reiner called "Total War Mode." She had three pins between her lips and was wielding a measuring tape like a whip. Next to her, the head tailor from the city, a guy whose glasses were so thick his eyes looked like panicking goldfish, was darting around near Cherion's feet, trying to tame the hem of his trousers.
"Stay still, Young Master," Marielle mumbled through the pins. She yanked a piece of silver-threaded silk across his chest so hard it almost knocked him off balance.
