“Somebody tried to assassinate Civelia?!” (See? See how easy it is for someone not to know everything? Good call not making a fuss about it.) “Sorry, I don’t know. This is the first I’m hearing about it. If I had to guess…” Think. Think. Think! “This is just an estimate, so take it with a grain of salt, but: The prophecy happened at the end of the Festival of Lights. I got the amulet…oh! Oh, it was when the Chrysanthemum was attacked. I don’t know what day that was exactly, but somebody here ought to. So Civelia must have made it sometime between then, probably a little closer to after the festival, if you count in travel time?” Civelia. Attacked. Almost assassinated. He didn’t even know they had assassinations in Thellamie. There’s stories of older wars, older troubles, but nowadays? When the world is more solid, and heartblades are always close to hand? “I hope she’s doing okay,” he offers, woefully inadequate for the happenings at hand, but it’s the best he can do. “I mean, I hope she’s not hurt now, and that she didn’t have to reincarnate.” Frown. “If reincarnating is a bad thing for her?” Further musings on the difficulties of the divine are stifled by Investigation. It’s a lot of work, don’t you know, to try and offer as little resistance as possible to the knight posing you without going so limp you fall out of place. Also not to flinch too much or yelp too loudly. (But some yelping is good. Feels right for it.) Where’s that line, exactly? Don’t ask him, he’s busy. With. Stuff. In time, the whirlwind of Mystery moves on to descend upon the clothing racks. Leaving him in bedraggled silence before he can comment. Good. He wasn’t quite sure what to say anyway. A joke. Hrm. It makes sense, given…well, Keli and Seli. Though, the timing. Could have been better. This is a…difficult moment. For him. (Though it is flattering that they might have liked his fluster.) They didn’t [i]make[/i] him go out like this. They did offer to change him, and he never bothered to ask for help with deciding. Maybe they would’ve helped. Maybe he should’ve at least tried. So, ngh, is it fair? To be mad? What should he say to them? When you dressed me all silly, that made me feel embarrassed and anxious. Please provide a more obvious off-ramp next time. Or, no, next time he’ll ask them directly? He was a little indirect here. He could’ve communicated that better. But! He still needs to- hrm? “Oh, no worries, you’re being a big he[i]LP-!”[/i] Oh hey. That’s the ceiling. Neat. “-whOoP-!” Oh dear oh gosh oh heavens that’s the floor that’s upside-down augh he always hated rollercoasters ohhhhhhhhhhhnonononowaitwhatwhoa Freeze. It’s the first thought. It’s the best thought. He’s trying. “Hap! Bup! Bap! Dwegh!” It’s not working? It’s working? His arm goes there now. His legs over here. His back bends like this. Freeze. Roll with it. [i]“Eep?!”[/i] The noises are automatic. They’re his best noises. He’s had a lot of practice, you see. “Mrp-!” Breathe. Blink. Breathe. The mirror blinks back. The mirror. Blinks back. “Wh….wha….” The noises are gone now. Hazel’s head darts down, and finds the trousers, the boots, the flowing sleeves, Eclair clipping a jewelry to his wrist, the skirt, the dress, the skirt, the dress, the skirt, the dress. Here. On his body. Close to his body. Closer than any t-shirt ever was. Farther than the uniform of Cafe Le Faun. But not too far. The soft material glides lovely over his skin. The boots wrap snug around his calves, binding him into shape and space with a firm hug. In the mirror, an arm rises, lifting a trail of waving white behind it. (He doesn’t think to move a touch slower. His fingers uncurl, with grace, because this is an outfit for moving more gracefully in, isn’t it? Like the first time he wore a suit, posing in the mirror, hearing the clomp-clomp of his fancy shoes as he walked, smooth as silk. It’s just the sort of thing you do in an outfit like this.) The earrings sway and jingle at his tapping finger, silver against silver. Not a wince of pain. His ears are pierced. Dangle, sway, jingle. The skirt. The dress. The mirror stares back. “A…bit of thought, yes.” He answers, in time. He’s been asked a question after all. “But never as a part of the contests, no.” He answers, without any of the panic or nerves that had crippled him. His voice is small. Soft. Fragile. “The prophecy never mentioned marriage. I had never thought it would go that far.” He answers, with a blade against his skin. The clothes were a surprise. The makeup is not. “I think…love ought to be discovered, and grown, together. I don’t think it ought to be forced.” He answers, carefully. He dares not move. He speaks only when it is safe. “I’m happy to help Thellamie get a good Queen. Whatever ‘taming and claiming’ looks like, for everyone, I’ll be the best Golden Fawn I can be. But a good Queen shouldn’t get disqualified just because she doesn’t want to marry…me…” The work is finished. Hazel [i]gasps.[/i] Against all odds and sense, the mirror gasps back. A lot of words happen. Supposedly. He’s making noises, this cannot be denied. Not his best noises though. Not a lot of practice with these ones. Whatever they are. He’s trying his very hardest to put them into words, only, there’s no words that fit [i]right[/i], he has to keep starting over, but there’s something in his head and in his heart that’s started short-circuiting every time he looks at himself again. This final gift of brushies - soothing, gentle, running long and slow over his silly head - keeps him from bursting, but only just. Words are hard, as it turns out. It might take a letter to get them sort of a little right. But he works in a “thank you,” several times too many. “Wow” is a faithful companion. And hiding amongst them, on small and wobbly legs, there ventures out a “I didn’t know…” Until a growing chant from outside sends it scurrying away. Hazel rises to his feet, looking to the door. “Oh. Dear. I should get out there…” [b]Mystery Builder![/b] He is terrified to get out there. He’ll do it, mind you. You know him. When there’s a job he’s got to do, Hazel Valentine Fletcher will see that it’s done. But in all the relief of not having wars fought over him, he never imagined this moment. Not really. He thought of stepping out in a spiffy suit, he thought of attending fancy dinners, he thought of doing silly dances at weddings with a crowd of loved ones around him, and when he put all of those together a ball seemed totally doable. Now there are crowds cheering for his entrance. Now there are going to be the most eligible ladies in all of Thellamie waiting to see [i]him[/i]. Now he is pretty, and he’s never been pretty before, and you know he thinks he’s pretty, but he doesn’t know if anyone else will. Perhaps Hazel Valentine Fletcher has done something wrong, and he won’t know it until the eyes of Thellamie are upon him. He’ll do it, mind you. You know him. He’ll do his very best, even as fear carves through his heart. But you’re here too. He’d never think to ask, mind you. You may know him enough to tell. You’ve helped him so much, and he’s done so little for you. How could he ask for more? But you’re here too. Sharp. Masterful. Hero to this city, and this boy. That’s quite a bit to work with, don’t you think? Do you take him by the arm, and present him to the crowd? Do you set some plan in motion with the Aestivali scoundrels waiting outside? The loyal staff of the Chrysanthemum? How do you shape the entrance of the Golden Fawn?