“How’s my face?”

“The scar’s looking better.”

“It’s a scratch.” It’s good he didn’t see it before the medmage spent half an hour on it. According to Ascanio, he would’ve been able to see into my face.

“So, Julie’s home,” he said.

“She is.”

“Have you come to an agreement on Roland?”

“No. The only way to stop her from talking to him is to order it, and she called my bluff. I won’t do it.”

“She knows?”

“He told her,” I ground out. “She’s known for months.”

The look on Curran’s face was priceless. All cold concentrated fury. If he could’ve gotten his hands on my father in that second, Roland would regret ever learning Julie existed. I kissed him. I loved him for that.

“According to her, she’s gathering information on Roland for us,” I said. “There’s nothing I can do. I have to trust that she’s learned enough in the time we had her and that she’s independent enough to fight off his influence.”

“We need to do something about your father. Soon.”

“Yes. He called the house upset about the reception dinner.”

“I know. He called the Guild as well.”

“Really?”

Curran nodded. “He and I had a conversation. I told him that it was a bit late to play father of the year, but if he behaved himself, we would make sure to save him a seat at the wedding.”

I laughed.

The doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock. Eight. Too early for Teddy Jo.

“I got it!” Julie yelled. Quick thumps announced her running down the stairs. “Kate! Kate, it’s for you! Kate!”

The urgency in her voice jerked me right out of bed. I grabbed Sarrat and dashed out of the bedroom onto the landing. People filed into our lobby, carrying bolts of white fabric. A short Asian woman in a black dress looked up at me and arched her eyebrows.

I realized I was standing on the landing in a tiny T-shirt and underwear, holding a sword.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Fiona Katsura.”

Clan Nimble. “Why are you in my house?”

“I’m here to fit your wedding dress.”

“I didn’t—”

“Of course, you didn’t. You didn’t mean any disrespect.” Fiona put her hands on her hips. “Our family has been designing wedding dresses for three generations. We don’t just sew, we create art. Designers come all the way from as far as Los Angeles and London for a chance to look at our work. Customers take out loans to purchase one of our gowns. Your dress has been on our project desk for months, back when you were still the Consort. Many sketches have been made and rejected. Countless hours of thought and consideration went into planning. Four appointments have been made, the last only three weeks ago, appointments you have failed to keep, no doubt because of your busy schedule. So when a strange man calls the Keep, and asks if we have your measurements and notes on your dress, and inquires if we would be willing to part with whatever we had already made so he could have his tailor”—she said the word so sharply, I checked myself to see if I’d been cut—“finish it in time for the wedding, we all knew that there must’ve been some horrible misunderstanding.”

I would strangle Roman. There was no way around it.

“Well, ex-Consort, if you can’t come to our studio, we have brought the studio to you.”

“I’m sorry. I really am but I don’t have time to—”

Fiona narrowed her eyes. “Jun?”

A young Japanese man stopped by her. “Sister?”

“Bring the ex-Consort to me.”

“Curran!” I backed away from the railing. “Curran, help!”

Laughter exploded in the bedroom. Bastard.

• • •

I STOOD IN the middle of the floor, trying not to move while three of Fiona’s people, two young women and a man in his midtwenties who looked a lot like her and Jun, sewed me into a practice gown. Jun, Fiona’s brother and enforcer, positioned himself in front of me. The real wedding dress would apparently come later and, according to them, I’d have to do at least two more fittings. I could barely contain my joy.

“Please stop grinding your teeth,” Fiona said. “It’s very distracting.”

“This one or this one?” Jun held up two squares of lace.

They tried to make me pick one out of twenty different samples. I told them I didn’t care, so they resorted to the process of elimination.

“Left.” The one on the right clearly had been stolen from some grandma’s coffee table. “Teddy Jo will be here any minute.”

“When he’s here, you can go,” Fiona told me.

A needle poked my thigh.

“Sorry, ex-Consort,” one of the seamstresses said.

I looked at Julie snickering in the corner. “Where is Curran?”

“Curran can’t be here,” Fiona said. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the wedding dress before the wedding.”

“Who made that rule?”

“It’s tradition,” Fiona said.

“I don’t care about tradition.”

“Tradition is everything,” Fiona said.

“Julie, where is he?”

“He went out to check on the horses.”

“Really? He hates horses.”