“That sounds dramatic.”
“It has been, historically.”
He set the paper down.
“Verraine made the fitting public. LeJoi witnessed it. You refused in front of staff, basin, and record.”
“All true.”
“You may think this worked your favor,” Quill said. “And perhaps it did, briefly. Dangerous, though, if you mistake it for safety.”
He moved around the desk and sat.
I stayed standing.
“The left sleeve will not be fastened at the formal.”
I had expected another fight.
The fact that he didn’t put up one told me his plans must be more insidious.
“The sleeve has become more trouble than it is worth.”
“You can’t leave one sleeve open and hanging loose.”
“No,” he said. “The dress will be altered.”
My hand closed over the brooch.
“You are not cutting up my mother’s dress.”
“The sleeves will be removed cleanly. So you can show your flawed Mark to the room if you insist on making everyone look at it.”
The trick opened under my feet.
Not kindness. Not accommodation.
A stage.
If the sleeve stayed, they quieted my Mark and opened the path to a lie. If the sleeves came off, whatever my Mark did at the formal would happen in full view of the room.
For better or worse.
Probably worse.
I had dug this hole and there was no escaping it.
“Cosima does the alterations,” I said.
Quill shrugged.
“Very well. Verraine has already made herself responsible for the garment’s condition. Let her be responsible for its correction.”
He folded his hands.
“You will wear the dress. You will wear the brooch. The sleeves will be removed. The record will state that the garment was altered to accommodate student concern.”
I thought of my mother in that green dress. Selene with the brooch at her shoulder. Selene walking into a beautiful room where men had already decided her fate.
