Michael

Emelda moves like an agitated fledgling as she dusts lint from my shoulders. She swats my hand when I reach for my hair, shaking her head and scowling before adjusting a single rogue curl trying to fight against the hold of the hair gel she slathered through my tresses.

“Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. Don’t bump into anything,” she instructs, stepping back to examine her work–me, in a royal uniform, all of my medals of rank displayed across my chest–and purses her lips.

“It barely fits,” I grumble, shrugging with discomfort as the stuffy, thick fabric of the suit scrapes across my skin.

“Take that up with the seamstresses...