The dressing room smelled of lavender and hot irons and Spur Stanley's nerves.
"Hold still," he hissed, stabbing a pin into the hem with the grim precision of a surgeon, "or I swear on my thimble I will sew you into the wall."
By the time the fourth bell rang, Salviana was standing in front of the mirror with her veil down, her braid pinned, and her stomach tied in a knot she could have used to moor a ship. Beyond the window, down in the courtyard, the guests had begun to arrive.
She watched them from behind the curtain.
