“It's a gala, Mr. Zheng.”

Becenti's legs were kicked onto his desk, jacket draped over his chair. He had an air of dignified relaxation, one that reminded Joseph of the professors at university, with that vibe of calm tenure. But Joseph wasn't feeling very courteous today.

“It's a fucking ball, dude,” he said, “I can't go to a ball.”

“Not dressed in that, no,” Becenti said, “You'll need a suit. A nice one. Nicer than the one you wore during the trial.”

“I'm not wearing a suit,” Joseph said.

“You looked rather snappy, though.”

“I-” Joseph blinked, “Okay, I did. Fair. But come on, Becenti. It's a big, fancy dance and ball, like something out of a fairy tale.”

He gestured to himself.

“I'm not a fairy tale kinda guy.”

“It's not only on behalf of the guild,” Becenti said, “But it's also to be the bodyguard to the Lady Sunala.”

“And?”

“She was quite impressed with you during the expedition, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti stated, “She wanted to poach you and Rosemary off of the guild, but Wakeling refused. So she did the next best thing and blackmailed us.”

He gave a smirk, reaching over and grabbing a paper off of his desk. He gave it another read-over.

“It says here that she'll only accept the two of you, out of everyone in the guild, to be her attendants during the gala.”

“Alright, and-”

“And if we don't show up, the local guild of Scuttleway, why, that would make us look rather bad, wouldn’t it?” Becenti said, “Our reputation would be in shambles. We'd get less offers, Mr. Zheng. We may even have to leave the city altogether.”

He leaned in.

“You wouldn't want that, would you?”

“Damn, you're good,” Joseph growled.

“It isn't me,” Becenti said, “I'm just reading between the lines. Sunala insisted on getting you and Rosemary for this particular job. And she wields some rather biting influence in Scuttleway.”

“You really think she'd do that?” Joseph crossed his arms, “Just... throw us under the bus if we don't do things her way?”

Becenti's smile grew nasty.

“Never trust a politician, Mr. Zheng.”

***

Rosemary herself was already at Sunala's estate, a beautiful manor that overlooked the canyon between landmasses. It was built in the Elven style during the colonial period, swan white pillars curving to hold a dome aloft, images of Elven history painted in rich detail on the ceiling, stag kings and ancient queens, the myriad heroes of times before that Rosemary was just beginning to remember the names of. She could even recognize a few faces, a fact which made the Lady Sunala smile when the noblewoman had quizzed her.

Indeed, Rosemary had been spending the last month visiting Sunala, often at the Lady's request. She had been slow to replace her attendants, though Rosemary had seen more servants as of late, elves all, and she herself found she was doing basic work once expected of Spinlock and Nelthel.

Err, Brother Brain and Brother Bone.

Those guys.

“It's a celebratory gala,” Sunala said, “One to celebrate the arrival of House Busciver to Scuttleway, two hundred years ago.”

“Wow, the Doge must be pretty humble about it,” Rosemary said.

Sunala smiled at that.

“Busciver's a kind man, but he does like to lay it on rather thick. Especially now, with his term almost through. He's hoping to gather enough favor with the Minor Tribunal to be reaffirmed.”

“And things are different now...?”

“The role of Doge is always a precarious one,” Sunala said, “You have to balance your own personal ambitions with the greed of the rest of the aristocracy. Compromise too much, and you're seen as weak. Compromise too little, and you're considered overly autocratic. A rubbish system, to be honest, but Busciver's been doing this for years.”

“He seemed pretty freaked out during your call with him back on Chliofrond...” Rosemary mused.

“He's always been like that,” Sunala said, “Always fearing a political attack, or an assassination, or this or that. Really where does he get such ideas?”

***

“If you're going to a gala, you're going to have to learn how to dance,” Becenti said.

He and Joseph were walking down the halls of Castle Belenus, away from his office and down a few flights of stairs, dodging to the side as Urash roared after Lazuli, the android holding the dwarf's spell rod aloft like a trophy.

“Walk, Mr. Lazuli!” Becenti barked, though he and Joseph knew that the little asshole would ignore his order.

“I thought this was a protection gig,” Joseph said.

“And it is,” Becenti said, “But the gala is to be held at Doge Busciver's mansion, and he has his own guards. It's a matter of reputation.”

They went down another set of stairs. Becenti, Joseph noted, was walking with purpose, guiding him to a specific room. Becenti was quiet, giving him a look that meant that Joseph was supposed to draw his own conclusions. Joseph stopped, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes.

“He needs to look like he can protect his own,” he said, “While everyone else's bodyguards are dressed as guests.”

“Precisely,” Becenti said, “Formally, the Amber Foundation is attending the gala as an official guild, an invitation extended out by House Busciver.”

“But really, we're there to make sure Sunala's safe.”

“Exactly,” Becenti said. He found the room he was looking for, and opened the door, beckoning for Joseph to go in first. Joseph complied, walking inside. The room was relatively bare, a mirror painting the back wall so that he could see his own reflection as he stepped inside (and wow, he needed a shave.)

The only other occupant in the room, already waiting for him with a radio in hand, was G-Wiz. She wore a black shirt and black jeans like some sort of modern dancer, her hair poking up in silver spikes.

“Sup, Joe,” she said.

“Sup, G,” Joseph said, “What are you doing here?”

“I told you,” Becenti said, “If you're going to go to a gala, you need to learn how to dance.”

“I know how to dance,” Joseph said.

“Joseph,” G-Wiz said, “I saw you at the dinner before Luevo became the Kimao. You don't know how to dance.”

“I-” Joseph's eye twitched, “I was drunk.”

“Alright then,” G-Wiz said, “You're sober now. Show me what you can do.”

She walked over and put the radio on a small crate in the corner of the room, clicking it on. Baroque music began to play – Vivaldi, Joseph noted. She crossed her arms.

“I'm waiting.”

Joseph glared at her, then noticed out of the corner of his eye Becenti taking out a cellphone.

“What are you doing?” he snapped at the older man.

“Nothing, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti said, as he very obviously began to film, “Just do your thing.”

And Joseph, realizing he was trapped – and realizing he truly didn't know how to dance to Vivaldi's Four Seasons, began to flop around like he was at a rave.

And he died from embarrassment as G-Wiz and Becenti broke out into hysterical laughter.

***

Thankfully, after what felt like hours of G-Wiz rolling on the floor and Becenti wiping tears from his eyes, they got to work. G-Wiz, thankfully, shooed Becenti out, closing the door behind him.

“Alright,” she said, “Okay, so whatever you just did there works at a rave, when everyone assumes you're high out of your mind and you're not trying to get laid.”

Joseph was beet red, and only could utter out an angry, “Thanks.”

“But we all have to start somewhere,” G-Wiz said, “And it's not like I'm working with unsculpted clay, here. You've got fancy footwork, and footwork is, like, the most important part of dancing.”

She walked over to the radio and began to rewind the tape.

“Scuttleway's snooty, they prefer music roughly similar to the music from Prime's Baroque period.”

“Snooty, but good,” Joseph said.

“Agree to disagree,” G-Wiz said, “Regardless, music like this is what we'll be using to learn about the traditional dances here in Scuttleway. Waltzes, and the like.”

“Right,” Joseph said, “And you, the punk rock wannabe, are going to teach me to waltz.”

“Look, if I have to use my classical education, it might as well be for something funny,” G-Wiz said, “I can't teach Rosemary, 'cause she already knows. I tried teaching Nole-”

Her voice caught for a moment.

“But the oaf couldn't put one foot in front of the other,” she managed to finish.

Joseph nodded at that, wisely not bringing up the troll to G-Wiz.

“So you're going to teach me,” he said.

“Pretty much,” G-Wiz said, “We've got two weeks before the big gala. I've got to teach you enough to be competent and not step on some lord or lady's feet. Not that it wouldn't be funny.”

“Gotta stick it to the Man somehow,” Joseph mused.

“Alright,” G-Wiz said, “Quit sulking like a baby, and let me show you the basic steps.”

***

Joseph and Rosemary visited Doge Busciver's mansion a few days later. It was known as Moonstone on the Len, so named, Rosemary explained to Joseph, because it was just grappling to the edge of the Len, a particular cliffside named for its mirror-like gemstones found deep in the rock. The building was pure white, a holdover, Rosemary continued to explain to Joseph, from its days as a colonial holding by the Elven nation of Tlantoia on the outer portion of the Landmass.

“Once Scuttleway won its freedom, House Busciver moved in,” she said, “The Doge's great-grandfather, Busciver, did some renovations, but the basic outline of the structure's still there.”

“And his name was just Busciver?” Joseph asked as they made their way up the winding streets to the Nobleman's District.

“Just Busciver,” Rosemary replied.

“And Doge Busciver's name is...”

“Just Busciver.”

“No first name? Last name?”

“They're gnomes, Joseph,” Rosemary said, “They don't have first or last names. They just have names.”

“Must make family reunions confusing,” Joseph said.

“Oh yeah,” Rosemary said, and her voice went down a pitch and became snob-tinged, “'Hullo, Lord Busciver. Why, good day, Lord Busciver. How is Lord Busciver? Lord Busciver is well, and Lady Busciver? Oh, as Busciver as can be.'”

Joseph began to laugh at that, weaving past a wagon as he did so.

Moonstone on the Len was a shock of white compared to the sandstone buildings of the rest of Scuttleway. A tall pillar of marble, a full half of it holding fast to the side of the Len, the flags of both Scuttleway and House Busciver fluttering on top of the parapets. This, Joseph thought, was perhaps a bit too gaudy, as the orange and blue crab of the city clashed horribly with the green and yellow hummingbird of House Busciver. Guards were stationed outside the main gate and patrolled the battlements, and they didn't say a word as one of them beckoned Joseph and Rosemary inside.

“Right,” Rosemary said, “We're just going to get a good idea of the place before the big show, nothing too crazy.”

“No searching for hidden rooms, or anything,” Joseph said.

“Ohh, you think they have those?” Rosemary said, “It makes sense, given the place. Maybe here?”

“That's a table, Rosemary.”

“You can hide underneath it, though,” she pointed out.

“Fair,” Joseph stretched, looking around. The main hall was also home to the gala's main attraction, a wide-open dance floor with a floor so polished he could see the glass chandelier above. Statues of Doges of the past were arrayed in alcoves by the door, which were currently being wiped down by a couple goblins. A magician was arraying the tables, levitating them over the heads of the other servants and setting them down by the walls, a white tablecloth blanketing over them. A stage was in the far end of the room, a lone cello standing unattended by the stands.

“Neat,” Joseph said, but Rosemary's eyes had gone wide as she took a few tentative steps, marveling at the sight, nearly walking into a troll carrying a barrel of cider to one of the tables.

“It's beautiful,” she murmured.

Joseph had to give her a smile at that.

“And the gala will just be on this floor?” he asked.

“Officially,” Rosemary said, “Unofficially-”

“People won't,” Joseph said.

“It's a cool place, Joe,” Rosemary said, “We'll want to check out the other floors, just to be safe. You never know, right?”

He knew full well she was trying to find an excuse to explore.

“Alright,” Joseph said, “Lead the way.”

They went up a staircase to the second floor, which overlooked the first. More tables were being set up here, as well as a few chairs by the balcony so onlookers would be able to watch the dancing below.

“The Lady Sunala says that the more filling foodstuffs will be up here,” Rosemary said, “She'll also be up here, too. Same with Doge Busciver.”

“So we'll want to be up here, then,” Joseph said.

“Well, we'll want to look natural,” Rosemary said, “But yeah, one of us should stay up here.”

“We'll switch off, then,” Joseph said.

“Dibs on first shift,” Rosemary said.

“Nose goes.”

“I already said dibs,” Rosemary said, “G-Wiz tells me your dancing is awful, and I have to see it.”

She smirked at Joseph. Joseph felt himself shrivel up and die inside.

***

Indeed, G-Wiz was a ruthless teacher. Joseph had another reason why she had become such good friends with Nole, why he held her in such high esteem, and that was because she was an absolutely merciless, exhausting monster. Every morning, at five sharp, she would knock incessantly at Joseph's door, to the point that Phineas, after the third day, began sleeping in the mess hall. Then, she would drag him, half-asleep and dying, to a room that was now blooming, like a lotus, into a dance studio. First the mirror in the back of the room had been polished, then the stone floor had been replaced with smooth wood (Joseph wasn't sure how G-Wiz had done that), then a small speaker had been set up so the baroque music that tinned out of the radio and into his nightmares had a better quality.

They would spend the first few hours reviewing the steps from the day before, then spend a couple more hours learning dance theory. It was on the fifth day that G-Wiz decided to forgo bringing him down to the library to draw on one of the chalkboards located down there. Instead, she had bribed Barbara into bringing one into the dance studio, and during lunch she would draw out the steps in increasingly elaborate diagrams.

Left foot forward, right foot to the right, then it went sideways and to the right, the left foot following, step back, bring the two together. Even the basic waltz had Joseph on edge, but he had to admit that he was growing used to the movements.

It was almost like boxing.

“How come you know so much about dancing?” he asked G-Wiz one day.

She gave him a look like he had spat in her lemonade.

“I'm from Doremi, the World of Music, dumbass. Dance is life.”

“Ah,” Joseph said, “Explains Vivaldi.”

“Pshh, Vivaldi,” G-Wiz rolled her eyes, “I hate this, you know. Doremi lies on what's known as the Great Musical Freeway, music from other planes literally sings forth from our rivers for us to collect like fish. And the fucking rulers of the place choose classical pieces.”

“Vivaldi's Baroque,” Joseph said.

“Baroque, classical, whatever,” G-Wiz said, “That's all they get hard for.”

“No Nujabes?”

“Fuck Nujabes, that's so obscure they let it wash down the stream,” G-Wiz said, “'Course, means more for me. But let me tell you, Noodle, my schooling was the worst.”

She had taken to calling him 'Noodle' after the second day and he had stepped on her foot for the seventh time in the hour. Yet he wasn't angry at the nickname – not after everything that had happened. He had stopped correcting her after a while, content for that to be his payment for the lessons. G-Wiz became more spiteful as Baroque overtook their worlds, more caustic and acidic in her teaching and admonishments.

“You don't have to do this, you know,” Joseph said on the eleventh day, “We can listen to something else.”

“Bullshit,” G-Wiz said, “I-”

“I know enough of the footwork,” Joseph said, “I'll get by, G. Come on, I'm sick of Bach.”

“...Alright, then,” G-Wiz said, “What've you got in mind?”

“J Dilla?”

“Naw,” G-Wiz said.

“MF DOOM?”

G-Wiz thought on that, pursing her lips.

“Fine,” she said. She walked over to the radio and clicked a few buttons. Doomsday began blaring through the speakers.

“You didn't even change the tape,” Joseph chuckled.

“I'm from Doremi, Noods,” G-Wiz said, “We have our ways.”

And they chilled for the rest of the day, ignoring anything and everything related to Baroque, waltzing, or the gala. It would be their last day of dance, something they both were glad for. It was as though a weight removed itself off of G-Wiz's shoulder as they walked out of the door. She gave him a final, silent nod.

She didn't need to say thanks. Probably wouldn't. But that nod was enough for Joseph.

***

Unlike the trial, where Joseph's business suit had been presented to him ready-made, Becenti decided his gala outfit needed a more... personal touch.

“Any old magician can resize clothes,” he said, “It takes a true master's touch to size a suit perfectly.”

To that end, he took Joseph on the town one fine afternoon, winding through Scuttleway's curving streets and towards the edge of the Market District, where more well-to-do buildings were beginning to bleed in. The world of the upper-class, better off than the rest of the city, but not quite as meteorically wealthy as the landed nobility. Most of the shops here catered to them – dedicated bakeries to one or two specific types of pastry, clothing stores-

“A Starbucks,” Joseph blinked.

“Friendbucks,” Becenti corrected, “Damn Prime business bought a chain out here. I've heard they have three in Kelphaven.”

The workers were dressed up in Star- No, Friendbucks uniforms, only they were goblins, or gnomes, or a particularly snooty looking elf who handed Joseph a pumpkin spice latte sample.

“And the Feds don't care?” Joseph asked.

“Everything is locally sourced,” Becenti said, “Locally made, too. They don't care much about the face that does the selling, so long as they aren't smuggling tech in.”

He stopped and pointed.

“Ah, here we are. After you, Mr. Zheng.”

It was a clothing store, with dresses and suits standing tall and proud in the window display, though beyond the pedestaled mannequins was a messy world of fabric and cloth, half-sewn clothes draped over old chairs like quilts, and full-body sketches of elegant gowns hanging as posters on the wall, each one more elaborate than the last. The shop's bell let out a cheery ding as Becenti opened the door, beckoning for Joseph to walk inside. As he did so, he watched something scurry over to greet him. It was a gnome, a young girl who stared up at him with dinner-plate sized eyes.

“Hullo, sir,” she said.

“Hi,” Joseph said.

“Domino!” Becenti said, “Is your mother about?”

Domino nodded, but apparently her mother had heard Becenti's voice.

“Myron, you old dog!” a sharp, harsh cry rang. The sharp, harsh cry's owner came wobbling out, an old, green-skinned witch who seemed more in place in a child's fairy tale than as the owner of a clothing boutique. Her nose was floppily long, with a wart on its tip like a unicorn's horn, and she nearly tripped over her overly-long black robes as she limped over to the front door. A young goblin girl accompanied her, holding the witch's hand to support her as she walked.

“Witch Rogga,” Becenti said, “You're looking well.”

“I'm looking like shit is what I look like, you liar,” the Witch Rogga said, “Gained three pounds since I last saw you, and I lost another tooth last week. Enough about me, though.”

She cast a yellow, bloodshot eye Joseph's way.

“My, my, aren't you a handsome boy.”

“This is Joseph, Rogga,” Becenti said.

“Ah, that new guildmember of yours,” the Witch Rogga said, “Whose membership you wagered during cards the other night.”

“I'm sorry?” Joseph said.

“A joke,” Becenti said hastily, “Rogga, Joseph's going to the gala on the guild's behalf.”

“And you need one of my pieces,” the Witch Rogga said.

“Standard guild rates?” Becenti said.

“...Fine, but tell Rathia that I need more of that ointment of hers. Helps with the leg, and all that,” Rogga snapped her fingers, “Domino, get Lucinda and Dearie to help me with this, this young man's a tall fellow, and I don't have the reach like I did in my eighties.”

“Yes, mum,” the gnome girl scampered off. The Witch Rogga took Joseph's arm, guiding him through the shop.

“So, tell me, Young Zheng, where are you from?”

“E-Earth.”

“Earth! Fine place, haven't been there in awhile,” Rogga said, “Not in the forecast.”

Joseph's heart fell.

“Yeah.”

“Has fashion changed much?”

“When were you there last?” Joseph asked.

“Ohh... about three hundred years ago?” Rogga scratched her chin.

“...Sorta,” Joseph said.

She brought him over to a mirror, and two more of her daughters came over, a hobgoblin and a human who both seemed about Joseph’s age. One of them lifted up his arm.

“Just to the shoulder, Luci,” Rogga said.

“Yes, mum.”

“Dearie, the measuring tape.”

“Yes, mother.”

Joseph had only gotten his measurements done once, during his cousin's wedding, his mom dragging him to some outlet store where the receptionist had measured for about a minute and then presented a bill. It had been awkward, but quick.

This was nothing like that. Rogga and her attendants poked and prodded, measuring every square foot of the statue that was Joseph Zheng, looking at him like a slab of meat, or a particularly tough block of marble just begging to be chiseled into a work of art.

“Blue, that's a good color for you,” Rogga said.

“Makes sense,” Joseph said.

“Brings out his eyes, mother,” Dearie said, fluttering her eyebrows at him. Joseph blushed a bit.

“Aye, blue, like a thunderstorm,” Rogga murmured, “Let's add some color to it, though. Something warm.”

“Orange?” Joseph asked.

“What, and should I stamp a big crab on your back?” Rogga growled, “You're a person, not a flag.”

Then she considered.

“Although....”

Rogga shook her head.

“No. Too tacky. Too patriotic. I get enough of that from Federation bucketheads trying to come here on the cheap.”

She wobbled over to a shelf full of cloth, picking it over like a vulture before pulling out a few sashes of color.

“No, yellow should do,” she said, “You like yellow, right?”

“I haven't thought too much about it,” Joseph said.

“Yellow and blue, then,” the Witch Rogga said, “I'll make you look snappy, and fanciful, but nothing too over the top. Lords want to look regal, nowadays. Leave the industry-pushing to the ladies, hmm?”

***

The Lady Sunala's room was one of the largest rooms Rosemary had ever seen, taking up the full top floor of her manor, a full circle with a marble floor and acoustics that made her voice echo and bounce in a lonely sort of way. The ceiling was see-through, magically enchanted to show the sky above, so that Sunala's schedule followed the day's, with will-o-the-wisps glowing to life as the Inner Sun crested towards the horizon and burned out. They hung here now, the sky painted orange, the cities on the other landmasses twinkling like stars as Sunala looked through the various trunks and closets for a dress.

“To be an elf is to look back to the past,” she explained, “If you're going to the gala as my guest, it only goes that you borrow one of my old gowns.”

“T-thank you,” Rosemary said, “I feel bad, though-”

“Nonsense, Rosemary,” Sunala said, “Elven culture values the idea of passing one's glory to the next generation. Think of it as an heirloom.”

“Alright, then,” Rosemary took a deep breath, trying to will the butterflies flying around in her stomach, “But, thank you.”

“Of course, Rosemary,” Sunala said. She continued looking for something fitting, while Rosemary glanced around the place. Much of the walls were bare, Sunala letting the natural etchings and carvings act as decoration. Her bed was luxurious, though it was covered in the usual pile of books and scrolls. In such a large room, though, it was only an island – not taking up the entire place like back at Castle Belenus.

There was a rather prominent painting over the bed's mantle as well. It depicted an elf (obviously!) wearing moonsilver armor, a single, curved blade resting in one hand, tip digging into the ground like a walking stick. The elf's face was pensive, almost curious, and the artist had captured an almost greedy, intoxicating charisma that dazzled in his eyes.

“Who's that?” Rosemary asked, pointing.

Sunala glanced up for a moment, arms full of dress, “Ah, Montaine. One of the founders of Scuttleway, actually. A personal hero of mine.”

A founder of Scuttleway. There had been three, hadn't there? A gnome, a hobgoblin, and an elf. Rosemary knew more about the gnome and the hobgoblin – Iron and Zautaro, folk heroes who settled down after a lifetime of adventure. She knew little about Montaine, though.

It'd be best if she learned...

“Ah, here we are,” Sunala pulled out a final dress. Rosemary gasped at the sight of it – it were as though someone had taken a field of roses and plucked every individual flower as far as the eye could see, and painfully threaded them into an ensemble that was more flora than cloth. Some were roses in full bloom, fold upon fold of red staring up and reaching towards Rosemary. Others were small, tiny things the size of buds, filling in the seams of the dress.

“Roses for Rosemary,” Sunala said, “Fitting.”

“R-Rosemary's a herb,” she stammered, “It's-”

“You don't like it?” Sunala asked.

“No! Yes, I do!” Rosemary took a deep breath, “I do. It's gorgeous. I just-”

“Try it on,” Sunala said.

Rosemary nodded. She stepped over and took hold of it, hands shaking slightly. It had been a very long time since she'd held something this rich...

***

Sunala read a book as Rosemary went behind the dressing screen, a soft smile on her face as the guildfolk changed. The last vestige of the Inner Sun died with a whimper, casting the night above fully into darkness, only the dim glow of will-o-the-wisps lighting the room. It felt nostalgic to the elf, of a childhood hundreds of years in the past, of nights in the woods chasing after fireflies that lazed through in the dusk like dreams. A different time, a calmer time.

But she had different dreams now, didn't she?

Rosemary walked slowly out, and even without makeup, even without holding her sceptre (which would rather complete the look, wouldn't it?), she looked stunning, a painting brought to life, the sun and moon brought together. Sunala had to look away.

“It's...” Rosemary stammered.

“You look beautiful,” Sunala said.

“It's alright,” Rosemary said.

She was looking at the floor, hands tying themselves into knots.

“Are you alright?” Sunala asked.

“It's fine. I'm fine,” but they both knew she was lying. Rosemary sighed, “It's gorgeous, it really is. And thank you for letting me wear it, but...”

“You can't,” Sunala said.

“I can't.”

“Why?”

Rosemary was quiet for a while, standing in place as though she were frozen. Sunala did not press the matter, waiting for her to answer, almost returning to her book with a final 'very well.'

“Promise you don't tell anyone?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Sunala said.

Rosemary turned. The dress's back was open, revealing two thin, faded scars just below her shoulder blades. Old scars, but just visible enough against her pale skin to be noticeable.

“Wakeling knows,” Rosemary said, “Elenry does, too. I don't think anyone else does, though.”

“I see,” Sunala said.

“So I can't wear the dress,” Rosemary said.

Her hands trembled.

“Oh, Rosemary,” Sunala said, “Scars are part of us.”

“Not... these are-”

“Part of you. I don't know how you got them, but you received those wounds when you were young, didn't you?”

Rosemary, still looking away, nodded.

Sunala stood up, walking over to Rosemary. She towered over the guildfolk, who stared up at her, squinting a bit as though Sunala were a star.

“Throughout our life, we gain injuries. We get hurt, both in body and soul. No one leaves this world unblemished, or free of pain. We carry baggage, Rosemary. All of us.”

She raised her stump of a hand. She still hadn't gotten a replacement. She doubted she would.

“To be scarred is to be beautiful, Rosemary. To show our wounds with pride, we shout to the world that our past does not own us. We are not defined by who we were, only by who we are and what we want to do.”

“I feel...”

“I know,” Sunala said, “It's a dark place, and those scars tell a dark tale. But you shouldn't let dark tales stop you from doing what you desire.”

Rosemary didn't answer. She gave a sniff, and wiped her eyes.

“Fuck,” she said, “S-sorry, that was good.”

“Do you want to wear the dress to the gala, Rosemary?”

“Y-yes, I do,” Rosemary's voice quavered, “It's really nice, and it's red, and I love red-”

“Then wear it. And damn anyone who says otherwise.”

Rosemary nodded, a watery smile crawling up her face.

“I... I will.”

“Good,” Sunala said, “And if anyone comments, or says anything untoward, I will kill them.”

“I'll help.”

“Then it's settled, then,” Sunala said, “I do dearly hope you have a good time at the gala, Rosemary. Our friend the Doge knows how to throw a good one.”