Chapter 127: Formal Wear
The deep blue uniform drew in at the waist, the skirt falling three inches below the knee.
There was nothing especially remarkable about the design, nor was the fabric of the highest grade. And yet on her, the lines of the shoulders, the waist, the slight curve of the open collar—they all looked as though soone had traced them over once with an exquisitely fine brush.
She lifted a hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The movent was light, and not a single pleat at her cuff shifted.
Ryan stood inside the doorway.
He truly had not expected her to co back.
“…Does Cecilia still have sothing to say?” he asked.
Ilis lifted her eyes.
Those violet eyes settled on his face, then moved downward, to the dark gray everyday clothes he was wearing.
Then she spoke.
“At tonight’s banquet, you’ll be entering with .”
“You’re my escort in na,” she said. “Even though you aren’t wearing Her Highness’s insignia, and no one knows you belong to Her Highness’s side—”
“…I still have to stand beside you.”
Ryan looked at her, one brow lifting slightly, waiting for her to continue.
Ilis pressed her lower lip together softly.
“So I would prefer it if my escort were dressed a little more properly.”
As she said this, her violet eyes dropped, fixing on the flagstones at the base of the veranda pillar. Her lashes lowered, casting a fine, delicate shadow over her eyelids.
“…That is all.”
She extended the wooden tray in her hands toward him.
The tray was not large, and it was covered with dark red velvet. The edge of the velvet was slightly wrinkled, as though soone had gripped it before.
Ryan lowered his gaze and took it from her. One corner of the velvet lifted.
Beneath it lay neatly folded fabric—a deep ink-blue color, giving off the faintest soft sheen beneath the veranda lamp. The texture beneath his fingers was fine. It was not the heavy brocade fashionable in the Imperial Capital, but so sort of wool blend more suitable for movent. The cut was simple and sharp, with no elaborate embroidery or ornantation.
He lifted the cover a little further.
The fabric was very new. So new that the fold marks were still crisp, so new that it still carried that faint scent of freshly made clothing from a tailor’s shop.
“This is…”
“Her Highness prepared it for you,” Ilis said. Her speech was slightly faster than usual.
“The mont we arrived yesterday, she had soone go and arrange it. It was only that when it was delivered, the asurents were a little off, so it was taken back to be altered. It was only returned just now.”
“The asurents… I estimated them by feel. Try it on. It should fit.”
Her violet eyes were lowered again, resting on the flagstones at the foot of the veranda pillar.
Ryan looked down at the formal wear.
The fabric was new. The fold lines were still sharp, and it had been arranged very neatly, but here and there along the edge were one or two faint pressure marks—as though soone had opened it to look, then folded it back up again.
He did not think much of it.
“Oh,” he said. “Then thank Her Highness for .”
“Mm.”
Ilis nodded, and her lashes gave a faint tremble.
Ryan lowered his eyes to the formal wear once more.
Estimated by feel.
He covered it again with the velvet, turned, and walked back inside. Ilis remained at the doorway and did not follow him in.
From behind the screen ca the rustling of fabric. The old outerwear was taken off and hung back on the rack. The new formal wear was unfolded layer by layer.
A mont later, the rustling stopped, and the deep ink-blue cloth settled silently along the lines of his shoulders.
Ryan stood before the mirror. His dium-length brown hair was sowhat disheveled—he had only just bathed, and dried it carelessly. Several shorter damp strands still hung over his forehead, their ends curving slightly inward. It was not the deliberate shape of careful styling, only the natural way they lay against the ridge of his brow.
He raised a hand and brushed those damp strands back.
His full forehead was revealed, along with those gray-blue eyes.
The brows and eyes in the mirror had grown deeper and calr than when he first entered the academy. The lines of his brow ridge and jaw had beco sharper through the repetition of daily training, cleanly drawn, like a short blade that had already been honed but not yet drawn from its sheath.
That gray-blue was the color of the winter sky over the Northern Border, just before dawn, when darkness and mist still lingered together. Now, reflected against the deep ink-blue fabric, so of the gray was suppressed and the blue rose to the surface, revealing a quiet composure not easily noticed in him before.
He lowered his gaze to the cuffs and lifted a hand. The edge of the sleeve stopped exactly three parts beneath the hollow of his wrist bone. Not tight, not loose, as though soone had asured the length of his arm inch by inch with their own fingers.
The shoulder line lay smoothly, neither strained nor slack. The shaping at the waist followed the curve of his back and drew in naturally. It was not the sort of line forced into being by tightness. It was as though the fabric itself had accepted this body.
He turned slightly, and the light cut across the mirror at an angle.
The deep ink-blue traced a clean curve along the rise and fall of his shoulder blades, drawing in at the waist and then moving lightly as he turned. The slight muscle he had built through recent training was set off exactly as it should be by that layer of cloth—not in any exaggerated swell, but in the outline of a young man who had finally begun to shed the last of his immaturity, whose bones and sinews were taking shape.
He lifted a hand and smoothed away the narrow crease at the cuff.
Estimated by feel.
Then he turned and stepped out from behind the screen. Ilis was still standing beneath the veranda.
She lifted her eyes. The veranda lamp spilled light from behind her, leaving her violet eyes washed in a faint halo, like two athysts dampened with water.
That gaze fell upon his shoulders.
The deep ink-blue fabric draped along the line of his shoulders, giving off the faintest cool gleam beneath the lamp. Her eyes followed that line downward—to the cuffs, to the hollow three parts beneath the wrist bone, to the hands hanging casually at his sides.
Her lashes trembled faintly, and then she withdrew her gaze.
“…It suits you very well.”
“The fit’s fine,” Ryan said.
Ilis did not answer. Her fingers curled once at her side, then loosened. The night breeze brushed past, and several strands of black hair slipped down from her shoulder. She lifted a hand and tucked them behind her ear. The motion was very slow, and when her knuckles passed by the shell of her ear, that pale skin there seed to take on the faintest trace of red.
“…That’s good, then.”
“Thank Her Highness for .”
Ilis lowered her eyes. Her lashes fell, laying a fine and delicate shadow over her eyelids. She nodded, her chin drawn in tight.
“Mm.”
“And thank you as well.”
Her lashes trembled again.
She turned her face aside, toward the heavy darkness beyond the veranda. The line of her profile looked particularly distinct under the lamp. Her ear was hidden beneath her hair, and its color could not be seen.
“…No need.”
Her voice was very soft.
“Then I’ll see you at the banquet,” Ryan said.
“Mm.”
Ilis did not turn back.
She stepped away, the deep blue hem of her skirt brushing softly over the bluestone.
A quarter of an hour later.
Ryan stood once more before the mirror.
The deep ink-blue formal wear made the line of his shoulders seem broader and his waist clean and sharp. A few strands of dium-length brown hair fell over his forehead, and his gray-blue eyes seed even more composed in the contrast of the dark fabric.
He rarely took the ti to look carefully at his own face.
He lifted a hand and brushed those hanging strands back once more.
The person in the mirror looked back at him.
Not the gloomy young master of House Velt in the Northern Border.
And not the academy’s infamous troublemaker whom it was best not to provoke.
He withdrew his gaze, turned, and pushed open the door.
The veranda lamp still hung above those clusters of purple flowers. Their cool fragrance drifted quietly, and the night breeze passing through the path lifted the ink-blue hem of his clothes in the faintest arc.
In the distance, the Main Hall blazed with light, and music could be heard faintly.
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