The city tailor let out a blood-curdling shriek at six in the morning because the stitching on the gown's waistline snapped. Rumina, who had been waiting in the corridor with a minute-by-minute itinerary, simply checked her pocket watch and announced, "Twelve minutes behind schedule." The tailor, a rotund man with a needle perpetually clamped between his lips, threw his hands up as if surrendering to fate and returned to his muffled shrieking inside the room.
Roland heard the entire ordeal from the adjacent room, struggling with one sleeve on and the other off. He had misaligned his shirt buttons again. He only realized it when Riven barged in without knocking, scanned him from head to toe, and extended a massive hand to fix a single button without uttering a word.
"I can do it myself," Roland protested.
"No, you can't," Riven replied deadpan.
