The preparation for the meeting was brief and highly focused.
I stood in the spare bedroom of the penthouse, changing out of my casual clothes and into a bespoke, midnight-blue suit. The fabric was cool at first contact, heavy wool that slid over my skin with a soft, dry whisper. It smelled faintly of cedar from the tailor's box and the ghost of pressing steam. The lining caught against the fine hairs on my arms. I rolled my cuffs and felt the starch bite, crisp and sharp against my wrists. The buttons were smooth, cool mother-of-pearl under my thumbs.
I didn't bother with the shoulder holster or the ankle sheath. If the Empress wanted me dead, a concealed pistol wouldn't save me against a compound full of Imperial Guards. I was walking in unarmed. The absence of weight at my hip and ankle felt wrong. My body kept checking for it. The air on my bare skin where leather usually sat felt too light, too exposed. My jaw tightened.
