Rowana POV)

  It happened without discussion.

  Going into town had been her idea.

  “It’s strategic, morale matters.”

  “I thought you just wanted an excuse to leave the Academy,” Tessa said.

  Rowana didn’t bother denying it.

  Brimward felt different lately—less like a maze, more like a map. Rowana noticed it mostly because Lysara wasn’t flinching every other step. She walked between them without scanning the crowd, shoulders loose, attention outward instead of braced.

  Good, Rowana thought. That wouldn’t do at all.

  She led them straight to a narrow shop wedged between a cobbler and a glassworker—one of the quieter branches her family still pretended wasn’t theirs.

  “This,” Rowana announced, “is where you stop looking like borrowed furniture.”

  “I don’t need—” Lysara started.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Rowana smiled. “I’m worried about your reputation; you are drawing attention.”

  Inside, the tailor took one look at Lysara, pursed her lips, and said, “I can fix this.”

  Rowana leaned against the wall and watched the magic happen. Pins. Chalk. Small, precise adjustments. Sleeves that stopped catching. Fabric that followed Lysara instead of hiding her.

  When Lysara finally turned toward the mirror, she went very still.

  Rowana didn’t comment. She wasn’t stupid.

  “It feels strange.”

  “That’s improvement. Right. Next problem.”

  “My glasses are fine.”

  Rowana took her time looking. Slowly. Deliberately.

  “No. They’re not.”

  Rowana took her hand and steered her back toward the street. “You didn’t agree to tailoring either.”

  Tessa added, “You almost walked into a second-year yesterday.”

  “Which one?” Rowana asked. “The scar or the walking disaster?”

  “That was your fault,” Lysara said.

  Tessa glanced over. “You’re blushing.”

  “I am not.”

  “Absolutely are,” Lysara said, squinting at her. “It’s… noticeable.”

  Rowana scoffed and dragged them into the smaller shop beside the flower stall.

  The glassmaker looked up, took in Lysara, and immediately stood. “Ah. Come through.”

  Rowana stationed herself at the displays and talked. Constantly. Frames. Colors. Ridiculous opinions delivered at full volume.

  When Lysara came back out, she looked unsettled—and oddly offended.

  “I don’t need glasses.”

  Rowana blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “My vision is excellent,” Lysara added, as if this were an accusation.

  “Well… that’s just rude.”

  “But you really want them?” Rowana asked, the humor fading.

  They settled on a pair with plain glass lenses Lysara chose herself—subtle, of course, despite Rowana’s best efforts.

  “Too safe,” Rowana complained.

  Exiting the shop the noise hit louder than Rowana liked to pretend it was.