“Stand here—no, here. Good. Shoulders back. Chin up. Eyes forward. Excellent bone lines, my girl.”
Penelope complied, though a flicker of disbelief crossed her features. “We’ve only just met.”
“And yet,” Camille said, circling her like a hawk, “your posture and proportion speak louder than any introduction.”
Mingxi stood near the corner—not quite blending into the background, because nothing about him ever blended—maintaining the polite distance of a Guardian who absolutely did not intend to interfere.
Except Camille spotted him anyway. “Guardian Shen,” she said without looking at him, “you will provide commentary.”
Mingxi stiffened a fraction. “I am not qualified to select gowns.”
Camille waved a hand. “Nonsense. You are a fox spirit with preternatural senses and impeccable taste. Much more qualified than most husbands and infinitely more helpful than the Council.”
Penelope very nearly choked.
Mingxi did not move.
Camille snapped her fingers, and two apprentices rushed forward with a flurry of fabric. The apprentices helped Penelope into a shimmering silver gown, silk chiffon layered over starlight embroidery. It caught the light in ripples, turning her into a moving constellation.
Penelope stepped before the mirror. “It’s…ethereal.”
“Too ethereal,” Camille said sharply. “You are not a cloud; you are a woman. And silver washes you out. Next.”
She shoved the gown toward the apprentices.
Mingxi said nothing.
Penelope glanced at him. “Well?”
“It is beautiful on its own,” he said carefully. “But it does not suit you.”
Penelope blinked. “It doesn’t?”
“No.” His gaze swept her reflection: soft, analytical, unerring. “It makes you look like you are trying to disappear.”
Penelope swallowed.
Camille snapped her fingers again. “Next.”
The next gown was a high-waisted creation of ice-blue satin with white pearl beading. Regal. Cool. The color of old aristocracy.
Penelope stood in it, posture immaculate but expression uncertain.
Camille frowned instantly. “Too cold. She is not an icicle.”
Penelope raised her eyebrows. “Is that a technical term?”
“Oh, yes. Terrible affliction among the nobility.”
Penelope huffed a laugh.
Mingxi tilted his head. “This one… speaks of distance.”
“Distance?” she echoed.
“Yes.”
He searched for a clearer explanation. “You look untouchable. Which may be useful politically. But not for a ball where you intend to assess threats and be observed closely.”
