The tailors arrived the next morning. There were five of them, each specializing in something different—one for fabrics, one for cuts, one for embroidery, one for fittings, and one who seemed to just hold pins and look judgmental. They moved as a unit, circling Evan like sharks who'd discovered particularly promising prey.
"We must prepare you for court," said the head tailor, a man so thin he looked like he'd been stretched between two trees and left to dry. His name was Monsieur Beaumont, and he spoke with the kind of accent that suggested he'd practiced it extensively in front of a mirror. "First impressions are everything. One never gets a second chance to make a first impression, unless one is very wealthy, in which case one can buy as many chances as one likes."
"Unless you make a second impression by accidentally turning someone's wig into a family of squirrels," Emma murmured from the corner where she was supposedly "observing" but was actually eating grapes from a bowl and flicking the seeds at a vase.
The tailors measured Evan from every conceivable angle. The circumference of his head. The length of his arms. The distance between his shoulders. The exact curve of his spine. The tailor with the notebook wrote everything down with the intensity of a scientist discovering a new species and needing to document every detail before it escaped.
"We'll need reinforced seams," the head tailor muttered to his assistant. "And perhaps some stabilizing enchantments. Silver thread, I think. And a touch of defensive weaving around the stress points."
"For the clothes or for me?" Evan asked.
"Yes," the tailor said without looking up.
They brought out fabrics. Silks that shimmered like oil on water, catching the light and throwing it back in rainbows. Velvets so deep and rich they seemed to swallow light, creating pools of darkness that moved as the fabric shifted. Brocades woven with metallic threads that formed intricate patterns—dragons, phoenixes, geometric designs that hurt to look at directly.
"This one," the head tailor said, holding up a bolt of midnight blue silk, "changes color depending on the light. In candlelight, it appears black. In sunlight, it reveals silver threads woven in the pattern of the Carter family crest. In torchlight, it shifts to deep purple. Very versatile. Very expensive. Very you."
"That seems... showy," Evan said.
"Court is showy, Lord Carter. It is a competition where the prize is influence and the weapon is appearance. The most powerful person in the room is often the best dressed, not the most powerful mage." He stroked the silk lovingly. "You will be both. We must ensure your clothing can keep up."
They settled on the blue silk for the main coat, with silver embroidery at the cuffs and collar that would shift and move as Evan walked. The trousers would be black velvet, soft and dark. The boots—reinforced, of course, with extra magical protection—would be polished to a mirror shine that would reflect anyone standing too close.
"Now for accessories," the head tailor said, producing a box that seemed to hum with contained energy.
The box contained rings, cufflinks, pins, and a medallion on a heavy chain. Each piece was intricately worked, some set with gems that glowed with inner light, some carved with runes that pulsed gently.
"Do I need all of this?" Evan asked, looking at a ring that featured a sapphire the size of his thumbnail. "I feel like I'm going to jingle when I walk."
"The Carter Signet," the tailor said, picking up the ring with reverence. "Worn by the head of the family for three centuries. It's enchanted to never tarnish and to grow warm in the presence of poison. Also, it's expected. People will look for it. If you're not wearing it, they'll wonder why."
"Useful," Evan admitted.
"The medallion is the Star of Dawn," the tailor continued, lifting the heavy pendant. It was gold, set with a diamond that seemed to contain its own light source. "Awarded to your great-grandfather for services to the crown during the Shadow War. It's said to glow when the wearer is in mortal danger."
"Does it just glow, or does it also say 'hey, you're in mortal danger'? Because subtlety seems counterproductive in those situations."
The tailor ignored him. "The cufflinks are moonstone. They're meant to enhance magical clarity and prevent accidental discharges. Very useful for someone with your... tendencies."
Evan picked one up. It was cool against his fingers, the stone milky white with a blue shimmer that seemed to move deep within. As he held it, the shimmer intensified, spreading through the stone like slow lightning, illuminating it from within.
The tailor stared. "They usually don't do that."
"Things around me rarely do what they usually do." Evan set the cufflink down. It continued to glow softly, pulsing gently like a heartbeat. "Will all of this... fit with the whole 'don't draw too much attention' thing Madame Genevieve was teaching me?"
The tailor and Emma exchanged glances.
"Lord Carter," the tailor said gently, "you could wear sackcloth and still draw attention. The goal isn't to blend in. It's to announce your presence on your own terms. To control the narrative before others can control it for you."
"Like a peacock," Emma added helpfully.
"More like a storm," the tailor corrected. "Beautiful, powerful, and entirely beyond control. Let them try to categorize you. Let them fail."
Evan looked at the array of finery spread before him. The fabrics, the jewels, the history. It felt like a costume. Like he was dressing up as someone else—someone important, someone powerful, someone who knew what they were doing.
But then, he was someone else now. Whether he liked it or not.
"Fine," he said. "Let's do the peacock storm thing. But if any of this spontaneously turns into wildlife, I'm not responsible. I've already had one incident with a sword and I don't need another."
The fitting took most of the morning. Pins were stuck. Seams were adjusted. The coat was taken in, let out, then taken in again. Through it all, Evan stood as still as he could manage, which wasn't very still at all.
The left sleeve developed a tendency to twist itself into a spiral. The embroidery on the right cuff kept rearranging its pattern, forming new designs every few minutes. The boots developed a faint but persistent glow that shifted colors depending on the angle.
"It's responding to you," the head tailor said, fascinated rather than annoyed. "The materials... they want to please you. They're trying to anticipate your needs, your desires. The clothes themselves are learning."
"That's a lot of pressure to put on pants," Evan muttered.
When they were finally done, Evan was turned to face a full-length mirror. The man staring back was a stranger—regal, imposing, dressed in colors that seemed to shift with every breath. The sapphire in his signet ring glowed with soft blue light. The moonstone cufflinks pulsed gently in time with his heartbeat. The silver embroidery on his cuffs shifted subtly, forming patterns that almost looked like words.
He looked like a lord. A powerful, magical lord who could probably command armies or at least ruin a very nice dinner party just by showing up.
"Well?" Emma asked, coming to stand beside him. "What do you think?"
"I think," Evan said slowly, "that I look like someone who knows which fork to use."
"High praise."
"I think I look like someone who belongs in a palace."
"You do belong in a palace. This is your palace. Technically. One of them, anyway. The Carters have several. It's a whole thing."
Evan met his reflection's eyes. They were still his eyes. Still confused. Still tired. But now there was something else—a glint of something that might have been acceptance. Or resignation. Or the early stages of giving up and just rolling with it.
"The clothes make the man," he quoted.
"In your case," Emma said, "the man makes the clothes do weird things. But same idea."
One of the tailors approached with a final piece—a cloak of dark grey velvet, lined with silver silk that shimmered like water. "For the carriage ride, Lord Carter. The nights are growing chilly, and the journey to the capital can be cold even in autumn."
Evan took the cloak. It was heavier than it looked, the fabric dense and warm, the silver lining catching the light and throwing it back in soft ripples. As he swung it over his shoulders, it settled perfectly, draping exactly as it should.
"Perfect," the head tailor declared. "You look... appropriate."
"Appropriate," Evan repeated. "That's the dream."
As the tailors packed up their things (giving wide berth to the still-glowing boots and the sleeve that kept trying to spiral), Evan continued to study his reflection. The clothes fit perfectly. The colors complemented him. The accessories added just the right amount of grandeur without overwhelming.
He looked the part.
Now he just had to figure out how to act it.
***