At that, the man’s brows pushed even lower, until they seemed like they might swallow his eyes whole. “Against my will,” he growled, his gaze darting to Sauda.
Sauda crossed her arms. “Oh, come now,” she said. “You look tidy.” She nodded at Winter. “He’s retiring in two weeks, right after your mission. Just wanted him to look his best for his farewell tour.”
Winter thought he looked a bit like an enormous baby without his facial hair, but a sharp elbow to his ribs from Sydney jolted him out of his thoughts. He winced and glared at her.
“What part of ‘not a word’ did you not understand?” she whispered.
Winter rubbed his chest and nodded at Niall. “Retiring? Congratulations, sir.”
“Don’t congratulate me yet.” Niall scowled and rubbed absently at the smooth skin on his chin. “I’m coordinating your mission on-site with the CIA, and apparently some think I look too sloppy with my beard.”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” Sauda replied.
“Sloppy and messy are synonyms,” he argued back.
Sydney leaned toward Winter and whispered, “Once he retires, he’ll be visiting his daughter for the first time in a decade. He’s a little anxious. Go easy on him.”
Winter stared at her, noting the way her shoulders tensed as she spoke. “You seem a little anxious, too,” he said in a low voice.
She shrugged him off, but her posture remained unchanged.
Niall’s attention finally returned to Winter. “Good to see you again, kid.”
“Glad to be invited back.”
The man shrugged. “You weren’t my first choice.”
“One can’t hearthatenough,” Winter said.
“Be nice, Niall,” Sauda scolded, and the man rubbed his round chin again.
“Are we fitting him first?” Sydney asked as they stopped before the central dais.
“Might as well do it now, since he’s here,” Sauda replied. She nodded at Winter and gestured at the dais. “Please.”
Winter stepped up onto the round platform and found himself staring at three long mirrors reflecting three angles of himself. At least this felt familiar—over the years, he had been fitted a thousand times for a thousand different outfits.
Sauda raised her voice slightly and spoke to no one in particular. “Avalon—his measurements, please.”
Avalon. Winter had almost forgotten about the AI that ran throughout the entire building. Last time he was here, Avalon had scanned every single one of his personal details and displayed them on the meetingroom wall, from his social security number to the last order he’d placed at a restaurant.
This time, a pleasant voice came on the room’s speakers.
“Winter Young,” it said, “please hold out your arms to either side.”
Winter obeyed. As he did, clusters of numbers and text drifted onto the mirrors facing him on the dais, appearing in the appropriate places around his reflection.
Arm length to shoulder: 36 inches
Shoulder width: 51 inches
Waist size: 29 inches
Inseam: 33 inches
“The gala you’ll both be attending after the Warcross ceremony is a rather grand affair,” Sauda told him as the numbers went on. “And that means looking the part, but in your own way, given who you are. So we wanted to make sure we dressed you in something you’d actually wear.”
Winter’s attention shifted from the floating numbers on the mirror to the line of clothes hanging on the racks. His gaze settled on a suit closest to him that had been carefully separated from the others.
