It started, like most bad decisions in Lidia's life, with a cloak that didn't fit.
Elisse had insisted she wear something dark and "not too noble-looking," which apparently meant she ended up in a thick, scratchy wool cloak two sizes too big with a hood that kept flopping into her eyes like a depressed curtain. She looked less like a cunning noblewoman on a mission of espionage and more like a slightly aggressive shrub.
"Elisse," she whispered through clenched teeth, tugging at the hem as they slipped into the west corridor, "I swear, if I trip over this thing and die, you have to avenge me."
"Of course, my lady," Elisse replied primly, entirely too used to her nonsense. "Would you prefer an elegant inscription or a dramatic ballad in your honor?"
"Ballad," Lidia grunted. "With tragic violins. And at least one reference to how gorgeous I was."
"Obviously."
