A few hours earlier:
Micah adjusted the edge of the wig. The strands were soft, pale white, falling smoothly over his shoulders and brushing the curve of his collarbones. He leaned closer to the mirror, eyes narrowing in concentration, and dabbed a final touch of powder beneath his eyes. The face staring back at him barely resembled the one he wore every day.
His lashes were longer, darker. His eyes looked larger, softer, framed by delicate shadows. The contour softened his jaw, reshaped his cheekbones. Even his lips, slightly glossy, tinted a muted rose, looked unfamiliar.
Good. He looked too different. It should be enough. No one could recognise him now.
Micah turned toward the formal dress he had prepared beforehand and paused.
Previously, he had only thought of it in practical terms.
The gown was light blue, Clyde's eye colour.
