Chris had never been so aware of fabric in his life.
"Ah," whispered Minister Leclair of the Eastern Ports, her fan fluttering lazily as she passed. "So that's the new consort design trend. We'll all be in trouble."
Rowan shifted beside the pillar near the royal dais like he was reconsidering the structural integrity of the ceiling.
Across the floor, Sahir leaned close to Killian and muttered something sharp and delighted under his breath. The Prime Minister looked like a man who had just been handed the winning hand in a five-year diplomatic chess match.
Cressida, seated in the front row with her legs elegantly crossed and a glass of champagne in hand, did not blink. She looked at Chris the way one might study a warship being unveiled in gold.
Serathine sipped from her flute. "Beautiful execution," she murmured. "A shame about the reaction it's causing."
