The tailoring suite had been converted into something unholy. Swaths of fabric hung from every beam like a ritual in progress: charcoal silks, pale cream brocades, and hand-embroidered waistcoats in every shade of betrayal. The lights were too bright. The air smelled like starch and expensive fear. And in the middle of it all stood Evrin, hands on his hips, eyes ablaze with manic focus.
"Absolutely not!" he snapped the moment Lucas stepped through the door. "I told you, no blue-gray. It washes him out unless we tan him, and we are not doing that again."
"Again? What do you mean again?" Lucas asked, each question rising in pitch.
Evrin spun on his heel, already advancing like a tailor possessed. "We had the heir of Lancaster house get tanned to match his favorite color. One of my finest works."
Lucas took an instinctive step back, hands halfway raised like Evrin might actually lunge at him with a bronzing spray.