- II -

“So then,” Sir Herbert said, pushing a door open, “This will be your room while you’re here. Or at least for tonight. Lord Lawrence ain’t sending you back to the docks in your condition.”

The room was spacious and well lit with natural light shining through large windows. There was a fireplace with logs burning in the hearth, soft, upholstered chairs and a velvet couch, a round dining table with a couple chairs, a chandelier, several lamps, a spacious bed with soft, clean linens spread over it. The rug was silk. The rug was silk.

“There’s a bath through that door,” Herbert said, gesturing to a door on the far side of the room. “It has hot and cold water. Mind the hot water though, it’ll scald you if you’re not careful.” 

Kirin glared at the knight as he passed his shoulder, heading towards the bath. “You threatened my life and my mother’s life on the docks, now you’re worried about me scalding my fingers?” Kirin snapped. 

Herbert raised his brow over his shoulder, but didn’t look offended. “Tides change: When we were on the docks, you were an urchin making a young man I am sworn to protect look like a desperate, wretched whore. Now you’re the Mairch’s guest, and I do what he tells me.” Herbert said, holding his hand out for the cloak. “And the Mairch told me that I’m your assistant until further notice.”

“...Who is it I look like?” Kirin asked, handing Herbert his cloak back.

Herbert didn’t answer immediately. He took the cloak and hung it on a peg, and frowned at Kirin for a moment before drawing a breath and blowing it away heavily. “His name is Rixian. He’s Lord Lawrence’s nephew.” He said, and stepped into the bathroom.

The Mairch’s nephew? The Mairch’s Nephew was half-elven? Kirin followed Herbert at a distance. He didn’t trust him, and he disliked being in a room alone with him, but at the same time, since the Merchant Lord called him his guest, Herbert hadn’t laid a hand on him and he’d been very polite. Unnervingly polite.

At the moment he stood across the bathroom, laying out soft towels beside a tub made of solid copper. He turned on the tap, and clean water began pouring down the drain. And then, miracle of miracles, steam began rising off the fountain.

Kirin had been a child the last time he’d seen a hot water tap. It was before Wasting Cough came to Glessanmore. Before his parents got sick. Before his father died and his business partner stole everything they had. It was a happier era.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he waited for Herbert to move.  It had been ages since he'd seen himself in a real mirror. A whole different life even. The man looking back at him now was a wraith. He was too thin. His cheeks had sunken. He had flakes of something in his hair, and a smudge of brown on his jaw, and four or five bruises visible on his throat now. 

“There’s soap by the tub here,” Herbert gestured in that direction, but Kirin couldn't look away from his reflection. “...Do I really look like him?” 

The tub continued running water through the drain. Herbert laid some fresh towels out, and for a moment Kirin thought he was going to ignore him altogether, then he sighed and frowned at him. “Lord Hawtrey is a poncy little man, but he’s not a liar.” Herbert said, “And he swore by every god and every star he saw Rixian go off into a filthy inn with a sailor. And he wasn’t the first one to swear Rixian Dulaith was begging on the tower docks.”

Heat rose across Kirin's cheeks and he blushed to the tips of his ears. He'd never felt filthier in his life. And Herbert stood there looking down at him like he'd never seen anything filthier either. 

“My purpose going to the docks this morning was either to bring that scruffy brat back home by his pointed ear, or else to find out who was ruining his good name and end those rumors one way or another.” Herbert said, “And before you ask, yes; when I first saw you on the dock I had a small heart attack for a moment thinking you might actually be him.” 

“--And would you have snatched him the same way?” Kirin asked, crossing his arms. 

“Damned right, I would.” Herbert snapped, “I swore to his father I’d keep after him, and I mean to.” 

“...Then where is he?” 

“Ain’t your business.” Herbert grumbled. “You’ll probably want to soak for a minute and then scrub, drain the water and scrub again. You have shit in your hair.” 

Kirin glared at him, “I may or may not have lice in my hair, but I do not have shit in my hair.”

“I’ll fetch a doctor to see what can be done about that.” Herbert said, “Now, you can fix the water to whatever temperature you like. And you don’t need to worry about the hot running out. Not at this time of day anyway. I’m going to find Fryth and see about fresh clothes. Leave the ones you’re wearing on the floor.” 

Herbert drew a dressing screen around Kirin and the tub and left the room without another word.

It had been a hell of a day, and he wasn’t sure what in Ealrahir’s name was going on. His mother had started to hope again, but she was still frightened and strangling with anxiety. He sent her his love over the line, and the mixed hope and confusion he felt. 

She responded with her own. 

Kirin stripped down and stepped into the running water. It was hot, and he adjusted the water a little cooler before he began scrubbing himself. He let the water drain through the tub, washing as much of the grime away as he could. He scrubbed his hair as well as he was able. He cleaned the filth away, and filled the tub for the first time. It was brown and cloudy before it was full. 

He scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed. He drained the tub and filled it again, and scrubbed some more. 

Kirin spent most of his attention and a large portion of the bar of soap on his hair. 

Hair was important to elves in a way that humans didn’t understand. It was a sign for longevity, peace, and health. It was a sacred symbol, especially those who revered Ealrahir like Kirin did. He had done his best to keep it clean, but there was only so much that could be done on the streets. He was lucky to keep it from matting... 

He was concerned that the doctor would get there, take one look at his scalp, and cut all his hair off in the name of cleanliness. He’d fight tooth and nail to avoid that if he had to, but it’d be best to try and get it as clean as possible before the doctor arrived.

A tap came on the door before he was quite ready to present his hair to the doctor, but when it opened it only opened a few inches. 

“Mister Hare?” A woman’s voice with a fine accent called, “I’m Madam Leta Fryth, the Mairch’s Steward. I’ll be your point of contact for your material needs while you remain Lord Lawrence’s guest.” 

She didn’t open the door, but spoke through the gap. 

“Thank you,” Kirin said. 

“The Mairch has, of course, invited you to an informal dinner, and would like to extend an invitation to your mother and any other immediate relations for which you are responsible. May I have their names and locations so I may send a carriage?”

“There’s only my mother. Her name is Illaxria Indrathail. We stay at the fourth tenement on Aethelfred’s tower.”

“If she’s not home, are there other locations we should check?” 

“She’s never far from our room. She’s been quite sick lately. Someone will know where she is.” Kirin said. 

“Thank you Mr. Hare, I’ll have a carriage sent for her immediately. The doctor has arrived to see you. Shall I send him in?”

Kirin sighed, thinking about his hair. “Yes, thank you.” 

“If you have any need, let someone know and I’ll see that it’s provided. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Hare.” Madam Fryth said, and he heard her step away. 

A moment later there was another tap on the door and the doctor entered. And bless Ealrahir, he was half-elven as well. 

“My name is Doctor Olastril. Sir Herbert mentioned that you were concerned you may have head lice?” 

Kirin was immediately extremely relieved and extremely humiliated. A half-elf with the name Olastril would surely understand his desire to keep his hair at all costs — but Kirin's mother an was Indrathail from the house of Olastril. So they were probably also cousins by some degree or other, and Kirin was an ungodly, wretched mess. This was worse than when he’d admitted to whoring in front of the Merchant Lord.

Dr. Olastril looked him over while the water drained and refilled. He asked him questions about his diet and his lifestyle, and said he’d have the staff bring him some bread and soup, and warned him about eating rich foods for a little while. “It’ll taste divine at first, and then you’ll be sick as a dog. Light foods to begin with. There will still be rich foods when your stomach has gotten used to them again.” 

Then he cleaned a couple scratches, offered some salve for his bruises, and applied a paste to Kirin’s hair to kill the lice. 

That was also the point that the doctor began to try and riddle out how they were related. It didn’t take too long to find a common relative, and after a little math the doctor decided they were second cousins once or twice removed. Having family here didn’t make the shame of his lifestyle any better.

While it was sitting he offered to shave Kirin's face for him, as Kirin's hands were too shaky and he had a scruffy two-day look. After that he combed through the paste with a fine comb, removing corpses of dead head lice that made Kirin sick with shame. 

And that was when the doctor asked the awful question: “I’ve noticed you’re uncomfortable with the state of your hair, cousin. May I ask about your religious beliefs?” And worse than everything — worse than admitting to whoring, worse than actually whoring — They’d spoken in Scaelich exclusively, but when the Doctor asked that question, he asked it in Olirian.

Kirin’s stomach turned, and it felt like ripping his heart out, but Kirin managed to whisper: “I revere Ealrahir.” 

“Ah, I understand.” He said, drawing the comb and flakes of dead bugs from Kirin’s hair. 

Then the doctor changed his approach. He combed Kirin’s hair again and gathered it into sections. It wasn’t until Kirin felt the pin wiggling through this hair that he realized what the Doctor was doing. 

Elves had no temples; they only had rituals and rites to honor the Phaeldasir. The Doctor took the part of priest and sectioned Kirin’s hair out into five parts, and began following Ealrahir’s pattern for cleansing. And Kirin sat in the filthy water of the tub and cried as the doctor cleansed the filth from his hair.

Once the doctor was satisfied the bugs were out of Kirin’s hair, he rinsed the remaining paste out, shampooed his hair again, emptied the tub and filled it again.

He rinsed Kirin’s hair once more, to be sure the water was running clear, and took a vial of elven hair oil from his bag. 

“Kirin, son of Olastril,” The doctor spoke in Olirian once more as he poured the oil over Kirin’s hair, “He who plays the silver harp will teach you. He who sings the eternal songs will guide you. He who wields the stars is your father. He who knows all hearts has made you clean, and restored you to himself and his people.”

He spoke Ealrahir’s blessing, and Kirin sniffled as the sweet perfume rolled down the length of his hair.

The doctor and priest worked the oil through the entire length of Kirin’s hair.

A tap sounded on the door. “Doctor, Ms. Indrathail has arrived and will be waiting for you in her room.” Fryth’s voice called.

The doctor finished another pass to be sure every strand was coated from root to tip. “Wherever you travel, Kirin aŕa Olastril, go in peace and dignity.” The doctor finished the blessing in Olirian before he stood and turned towards the door. “Thank you, madam steward,” he said, now in Scaelich again, “I’ll attend her shortly. I’m finishing up with Mr. Hare.” 

The doctor washed his hands in the sink, and then gathered his apothecary. 

“Tell her I’m alright,” Kirin said, “Sir Herbert scared me earlier, and she was frightened.” 

The doctor smiled and nodded, “I’ll assure her that you’re safe and as healthy as can be expected with your lifestyle.” He said. “I’ll check with you again after dinner, Suiŕail.”

And with that, the doctor drew the screen back around the bath and left the room. 

Kirin rested in the clean hot water and let the oil rest in his hair. It smelled like eucalyptus and sandalwood, and it reminded him of his father somehow. It had been years since he’d really felt clean, and he relished it. 

Kirin stayed in the bath until Herbert came back.

“Your lunch is ready, and I’ve got you some clothes to try on. I had to guess your sizes, so you’ll have to let me know what fits and what doesn’t.” Herbert said from the other side of the screen. 

With that, Kirin rinsed the oil from his hair and was pleased to see the water running clear and clean. He dried off with a soft, warm towel, and waited as Herbert passed him articles of clothing over the top of the screen.

The first item he was expecting was a pair of canvas pants. It wasn’t. It was a pair of fine cambric linen smallclothes. The second piece was a soft pair of fine silk corduroy pants, which was quickly followed by a cambric shirt, a silk vest, and a corduroy jacket. 

His father had been a textile merchant before Wasting Cough took him. Kirin had spent every moment at his side since he was old enough to eat solid foods, learning the trade, memorizing prices, doing his best impression of his father’s business phrases to his parents amusement and delight.

The fine fabrics of the clothes he’d been brought reminded him of those days. It also made him keenly aware that they were far too fine for him. 

The jacket by itself was too much. For the price of the jacket alone he and his mother could live like kings for a month, or they could live comfortably for three.

Kirin found himself in crisis, wrapped in a towel, in the finest castle in the north of Kingscythe. He decided he couldn’t possibly wear the clothes that had been brought to him, but his old clothes were gone. Perhaps to be washed, perhaps to be burned, depending on the sensibilities of whoever had taken them.

For a ridiculous moment he considered whether or not he could eat wrapped in the towel, but decided that wasn’t acceptable. A couple dozen strangers on the docks had seen him nude or mostly nude over the last month; so far the only person who’d seen him entirely nude at the castle was the doctor and he’d like to keep it that way if at all possible. 

“Let me know what doesn’t fit,” Herbert said, “I’ve got larger and smaller sizes of everything that matters. Pants, jacket, vest, etc.”

Kirin took a breath and smelled the perfume in his hair, and remembered Ealrahir’s blessing, and how good it was to feel clean again. So he began to dress in the fine clothes he’d been given.

He tried them on, found the pants were a little loose and a little long, and Herbert handed him another pair that were a little smaller and an even finer textile. When the jacket was a little tight in the shoulders Herbert traded it out for another one. Soon Kirin had black corduroy pants, a fine white cambric shirt, a purple silk vest, a wine-colored velvet jacket, warm woolen socks and a fine pair of tooled leather boots. 

The cravat was Olirian gossamer.

His mother used to have a gossamer dress. She used to dance, and it would make her look like she was floating and flying. They’d sold it ages ago to pay back debts to the court from trying to get his father’s business back. It had broken her heart to let it go, but they both had to give up things that were dear to them so they could stay together. 

Kirin finished dressing and stepped out from behind the screen. Herbert looked him up and down with a smirk, “Well damn. You look half-way respectable now.” 

Kirin tried to avoid reacting, but Herbert’s smirk turned amused nonetheless. “There’s a comb by the mirror. Brush your hair out and come get your food. Fryth’s waitin’.” And with that Herbert left him. 

Kirin took a long breath to steady himself and caught the scent of something delicious in the other room. He couldn’t mess this up. He didn’t even know what this was, but he couldn’t mess it up. 

He took the comb with shaking hands and ran it through his hair to make it straight. By the time it made it through the length, his hair was somehow dry. It took a moment before he realized the comb was magic. The comb. He’d been left alone in a room with a magic comb. How much did that thing cost? It was a comb, this was the kind of thing that could be accidentally misplaced or put in a pocket and forgotten and found months later. He glanced at his incredulous expression, as if to find someone else who understood how lavishly expensive everything in this castle actually was. 

His reflection was as incredulous as he was, but his reflection didn’t seem to be in awe of the splendor. His reflection was a nobleman, wearing silks and velvets and cambric, and he was probably judging him for gawking at a comb. Pish posh, the reflection said, it’s a comb, not an enchanted mirror.

Kirin rolled his eyes at the reflection and stepped away. 

There was food on the table, and his mother was here somewhere, and at some point in the evening he was going to talk to the Mairch of Eldefrey about a job. There was a lot to do. 

There were two people in the other room. Sir Herbert, and a tall woman he assumed must be Madam Fryth.

She was human, and looked to be somewhere in her mid-forties, with blond hair swept back in an elegant, but no-fuss bun. She wore a smart coat and trousers, with boots that rose to her knee. Everything about her looked practical and methodical, yet somehow there was a softness about her he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

Both looked over when he entered the room, and the woman froze and blinked in shock for a moment.

“I told you.” Herbert said with a sly grin.

The woman cast him a sharp look for a moment before she turned with a smile to Kirin. “Mister Hare, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Madam Fryth.” 

“It’s good to meet you as well.” Kirin said. 

“Please forgive my reaction just now. Sir Herbert said the resemblance was uncanny, but I wasn’t quite prepared.” Fryth said kindly.

“The look on your face,” Herbert chuckled. 

Fryth frowned at him, “Thank you, Sir Garris.” 

“I can’t wait to see Dair’s expression. He’s gonna die.” Herbert said. “Anyway, food’s on the table, lad. Have at.”

The table was set with a bowl and a tureen of steaming soup, with a loaf of bread, a dish of butter, and some cheeses on a plate. 

Kirin’s mouth watered, and his first instinct was to dive on the feast laid on the table, but he managed to maintain his dignity and seated himself at the table like he had some manners that weren’t taught by his acting troupe.

“Now, if Sir Garris can contain his glee for a minute, I imagine you have some questions, Mr. Hare?” Fryth asked.

Kirin took a spoon of the soup, which appeared to be some kind of creamy chicken soup with potatoes and corn, and he didn’t care what else, it smelled amazing. He swallowed so as to avoid drooling, and looked up at Fryth and Herbert politely, “I heard my mother was here?”

Fryth nodded, “She's arrived. I welcomed her about twenty minutes ago.”

He could wait a moment longer to eat… “May I see her?”

“Of course. Doctor Olastril is with her at the moment, but as soon as he's satisfied and she's had a chance to get cleaned up and changed you'll be free to see one another.” Madam Fryth said kindly.

That meant it’d be a while before she was available. Kirin nodded, and took a bite. He could eat a bowl of soup and then find her. The soup was heavenly. It was salty and creamy and flavorful, and it was all Kirin could do to not drink it right out of the bowl or drip it on the borrowed clothes.

“I was going over a list of items which you’re still in need of. Is there anything you require? The doctor mentioned you revere Ealrahir, do you need religious hair accoutrements?” 

It was a thoughtful question. He had a driftwood hair stick at their apartment and a few scavenged shells his mother had fashioned into a lace that he’d wear on holy days, but the next of those was a full month away, and they’d be too much a reminder of how unworthy he was to wear the fine clothes he'd been given. “No, thank you.” Kirin said quietly between bites of heavenly chicken broth from Aescathera.

“All he's got is what's on his back. He'll need everything.” Herbert said. 

Fryth made a note, “I'll see to that. Other things? Necessities? Handkerchiefs, combs, razors, cologne?”

“I think I'll be fine.” Kirin said meekly.

“Night clothes, traveling clothes, a couple sets of daily wear clothes, house shoes, walking boots, hair ornaments, some of that fancy hair oil Varlathan likes,” Herbert listed.

Fryth nodded, “A winter coat or cloak,” 

“A good one.” Herbert agreed. 

“I’ll see to it.” Fryth said.

“Do you drink, lad?” Herbert asked.

Kirin shuffled, “Not lately.”

“That’s a different list…” Fryth said, turning a page, “What are your favorite beverages?”

“A good brown beer…?” Kirin offered carefully. He wasn’t sure if it was too much to ask for a beer, but it had been months since they’d had money to waste on non-essentials.

Fryth made a note, “Any preference to red or white wine?”

“No,” 

“And what liquors do you prefer?” 

“I like whiskey and Illoran.” he offered. 

“Excellent.” She said, “What about teas?” 

“...Is there more than one kind?”

“Yes.” Fryth said simply, making another note. 

Kirin nodded and sipped more of his soup. The best he’d had to eat lately had been day-off vegetables and half-molded bread. 

“The doctor mentioned a diet he’d like you to have for the time being. Do you have any allergies or religious or moral constraints to your diet that we should be aware of?”

“No.” Kirin said. 

She nodded and made another note, then tore a couple pages from the book and gave them to Herbert, “See that to the kitchen, and these two to my aid, please.” 

Herbert gave a half bow and left the room.

Kirin sipped his soup. He wasn’t sure what just happened, or what to say in reaction to it, so he stayed quiet.

“May I join you at the table, Mr. Hare?” Madam Fryth asked.

“Of course,” he said, confused at the formality. 

Madam Fryth took the seat across from him and flipped her book open to another page, “The doctor told me that you mentioned that Sir Herbert frightened you earlier. Your mother seemed upset as well when I welcomed her. Sir Herbert is gone for the moment, and I wanted to check with you. Would you like to discuss what happened?” 

Kirin blinked, frozen for a moment. He didn’t want to risk making Herbert angry. And it seemed as if the trouble they had was relating to Kirin making the Nephew look bad — which, Ealrahir help, how was he going to talk with the Mairch knowing he was making his nephew look bad? 

“No, I’m fine.” Kirin said, and before he could quite stop himself — “Just, Sir Herbert is … I’m confused by Sir Herbert.”

Fryth smiled and nodded in something that looked like agreement. “He’s a singular individual.”

“He is safe, right?” Kirin asked.

“Sir Herbert is no danger to you as long as you are Lord Dulaith's guest.” 

“He threatened to break both my legs and throw me in the bay.” Kirin said. 

“Gods, That does sound like him, unfortunately… When did that occur?” Fryth asked, making a note in her book.

Kirin had a lump in his throat, “That was before we got to the castle, we were on the docks.” 

Fryth sighed, “On behalf of Lord Dulaith, I sincerely apologize for Sir Herbert’s behaviour. As a guest of Lord Lawrence, I promise you will have no further problems with Sir Herbert. I cannot remove him from your care, as the Mairch assigned him to you, but if at any point you do not feel safe, I would ask you to call for me and I will handle the situation immediately. There’s a bell here that you can pull to call me.” She gestured to a cord by the door that disappeared into the ceiling. 

“Thank you.” Kirin said.

“Do you have any further needs, or any questions that I can answer?” Fryth asked.

“...Where is Lord Dulaith's nephew?” Kirin asked quietly, “Did something happen to him? The man who mistook me for him earlier said Lord Dulaith was worried about him.” 

“Ah,” Fryth nodded, “Lord Rixian is currently away from the family holdings. You needn’t worry for him though; he’s quite well. Lord Lawrence’s concerns are mainly to do with him being outside his immediate vision and continuing complications related to his Wasting Cough.”

“—He has Wasting Cough?” Kirin asked.

“He suffers Wasting Malaise periodically. You must be familiar with that?” 

Kirin nodded, “My mother’s sick right now.” 

Fryth looked thoughtful, “She looked a little pale when she arrived. The doctor should be almost done speaking with her by now. I should make sure she has everything she needs. Is there anything else you require?” Fryth asked.

“Can I go see her?” Kirin asked.

“If you’ve finished eating, of course you may. I can escort you.” Fryth said, standing. 

Kirin looked over the table once more, and though he could eat more his mother still felt anxious and concerned. He took a small wedge of cheese, and rose with Fryth and followed her to meet his mother.

Fryth walked him down the hall to her room, which wasn’t very far from his own. 

His mother was sitting on a couch in a new, autumn orange silk dress. Her hair was washed and clean and hanging free around her shoulders, she was wearing mascara and a little color on her lips and cheeks, and she looked a hundred years younger than she had that morning. 

She hugged him tightly and wept into the shoulder of the borrowed coat for a long while. 

The doctor eventually excused himself. Fryth spoke with a woman who appeared to be waiting on his mother, and followed the doctor to get some new notes. The waiting maid lingered quietly in the corner, and Kirin and his mother went to the table and shared a bountiful meal. 

He answered her questions about what had happened carefully, and in Olirian. He didn’t want to upset her more than necessary, and before he was finished relating everything Sir Herbert arrived quietly.

His mother caught the uneasy feeling in Kirin’s chest when Herbert came in. 

Herbert, for his part, offered a half bow to them, then without a word arranged himself in a chair with a deck of cards, playing solitaire. After a couple of games by himself he invited the lady’s maid to join him for a card game, and they began something that looked like a friendly rivalry. 

Kirin and his mother spent the next couple hours talking, mostly in Olirian, which it seemed neither Herbert nor the maid understood. If they did speak Olirian, neither of them reacted to anything they said.

The stolen moments were almost paradise. The room was warm, his mother was cleaner and looked more like herself than she had in years. She was obviously fatigued, but if he tried a little it was like she wasn’t sick at all. The makeup had brought some color back to her face, and even in her malaise she wasn’t wincing at every small movement. She wasn’t shivering with a threadbare shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She wasn’t coughing blood every minute. Her breathing didn’t sound labored or rattling. And when she did start coughing again the maid called the doctor again and he gave her some medicine, and the cough went away again.

It was so simple; some medicine and the coughing stopped. 

If the Merchant Lord could offer him a job that could pay him enough to make sure she could have medicine, he’d take it. It didn’t matter if it was shoveling shit in a sewer a mile under the city. 

His nervousness kept building as the light of the day began to fade. Eventually a clock struck seven, and Herbert gathered his cards. “Dinner soon. I’ll get you a cravat so you can be presentable.” 

Kirin swallowed nervously, “Thank you.”

“Ain’t nothin’.” Herbert said, stepping into the hallway. 

The maid refreshed his mother’s makeup and chose a shade of dark red for her lips. She wrapped a fur stole around her shoulders and began gathering her hair back in a simple and lovely Olirian style. 

While she was working, Kirin’s mother gestured for him to come to her so she could fix his hair. She braided the top half and gathered it into a bun and borrowed some pins to secure it. It was simple, but this was one of the few rituals they had left from better times. 

Herbert arrived as she was finishing setting the pins. 

“Do you know how to tie a cravat?” Herbert asked.

“No, I never learned.” Kirin said, standing. 

Herbert gestured to him and looped the gossamer around his neck. It made Kirin nervous, and he felt a little choked, but Herbert quickly tied the cravat and stepped back. “Tuck the length under the vest. The Mairch’s waiting.” 

Finally dressed, Kirin took his mother's hand and followed Herbert to dinner with the wealthiest man in Ethelfell.