Chapter 54: THE SUIT

"I don’t need a suit," Vael said.

"You need a suit," Lyria said.

"I have shirts."

"You have *work* shirts. With flour." She held up the tailor’s card. "Madame Odette’s cousin. Best in the county. He made the mayor look —" she searched, "— *mayoral*."

"I don’t want to look mayoral."

"You want to look —" she tapped the card, "— *married*."

---

The tailor’s shop smelled of chalk and wool and quiet judgment.

Madame Odette’s cousin was a man named Fenwick — small, precise, with measuring tape draped around his neck like a medal.

"Mr. Astaroth," he said, circling. "Arms out."

Vael put his arms out.

"Chin up."

Vael put his chin up.

"Now —" Fenwick began measuring — shoulders, chest, waist, inseam — muttering numbers. "Hm. Hm." He paused at Vael’s left shoulder — at the scar there, old, white, a sword cut from seventy years ago. "Hm."

"It’s old," Vael said.

"They’re all old, dear." Fenwick measured around it. "The suit doesn’t hide scars. The suit —" he marked the chalk, "— *frames* them." He looked up. "You’ve earned your frame."

Vael didn’t know what to say to that. So he said: "Thank you."

"Don’t thank me. Stand still." Fenwick moved to the right arm — another scar, thinner. "Hm. The —" he measured, "— the *symmetry* is terrible. But the shoulders —" he stepped back, assessing, "— the shoulders are *magnificent*."

"They’re just shoulders."

"They’re * load-bearing* shoulders." Fenwick wrote numbers. "What color?"

"Black," Vael said. "Like —" he stopped.

"Like what, dear?"

"Like —" Vael looked at his hands. "Like the suit I wore. Before. When I was —" he didn’t finish.

Fenwick was quiet for a moment. Then: "Not black."

"What?"

"Not black." Fenwick put down the chalk. "Black is for funerals and thrones. You’re —" he looked at Vael, really looked, "— you’re getting *married*. Under a *plum tree*." He picked up a swatch — deep green, like the yard at dusk. "Green."

"Green," Vael repeated.

"Green." Fenwick held it to Vael’s shoulder. "With —" he picked another swatch, gold, "— gold lining. For the —" he gestured vaguely, "— the *occasion*."

Vael looked at the green. Looked at the gold.

"...Green," he agreed.

---

The fitting took two hours. Vael stood — arms out, chin up — while Fenwick pinned and chalked and muttered.

"You’re fidgeting," Fenwick said.

"I’m not."

"You’re *fidgeting*. Grooms fidget. It’s —" he pinned a sleeve, "— *endearing*."

"I’m not endearing."

"You’re *terrifyingly* endearing." Fenwick stepped back. "Turn."

Vael turned. Caught his reflection in the tall mirror —

— and stopped.

The man in the mirror wore a half-finished green suit, chalk marks on the shoulders, pins in the sleeves. He had scars — visible at the collar, at the cuffs. He had flour — somehow, despite the clean shirt — on his sleeve.

He looked —

He looked *happy*.

Not the happiness of victory. Not the relief of survival. The quiet, ordinary happiness of a man being measured for a wedding suit.

"That’s —" Vael said quietly, "— that’s me."

"That’s you," Fenwick agreed. "Now —" he turned Vael back around, "— arms out. We’re not done."

---

Toma’s fitting was — in Fenwick’s words — "a challenge."

In Toma’s words, it was "the worst."

"I don’t see why I need a suit," the boy said, arms out, chin up — mimicking Vael’s posture with extreme inaccuracy. "I’m the ring bearer. I carry a *cushion*."

"Ring bearers wear suits," Fenwick said, measuring. "It’s —" he marked the chalk, "— *tradition*."

"Traditions are —" Toma fidgeted, "— *itchy*."

"Stand still."

"I’m *trying*." He stood still — for three seconds. "Is it done?"

"It’s not done."

"When will it be done?"

"When you stand still."

Toma stood still. Fenwick measured. Toma stood still. Fenwick pinned. Toma —

"Can I have a sword?" he asked suddenly. "Like Aunt Corvina’s? A small one? For —" he searched, "— *aesthetics*?"

"No," Vael and Fenwick said together.

"But—"

"No," they said again.

Toma sighed — the sigh of a ten-year-old denied a sword. "Fine. But the suit better be —" he thought, "— *adequate*."

Fenwick paused. Looked at the boy. "Adequate," he repeated. "You’ve been spending time with Aunt Corvina."

"She’s teaching me words." Toma stood straighter. "Adequate. Acceptable. *Sufficient*."

"Those are —" Fenwick marked the chalk, "— *excellent* words."

"They’re *adequate* words," Toma corrected.

Fenwick laughed — surprised out of himself. "The suit," he said, "will be *adequate*. I promise."

"Good." Toma hopped down from the stool. "I’m going to patrol."

"Patrol," Fenwick repeated, watching him march off. "The inn has a *patrol*."

"The inn has everything," Vael said.

---

Halric saw the finished suit first — outside the tailor’s, in the dusk, Vael carrying the garment bag like something precious.

"Let me see," Halric said.

"You can’t. Tradition."

"I’m not the bride. *Let me see*."

Vael hesitated — then opened the bag, just enough. Green. Gold lining.

Halric was quiet for a long moment.

"Green," he said finally.

"Fenwick said black is for funerals and thrones."

"He’s right." Halric touched the fabric — carefully, the way you’d touch something that mattered. "You know —" he paused, "— I wore black. At mine."

Vael didn’t say anything.

"It didn’t help." Halric let go of the fabric. "The black. It didn’t —" he shook his head. "Green’s better. Green is —" he searched, "— *alive*."

"Halric—"

"Don’t." Halric smiled — the real one, the rare one. "I’m happy for you, Vael. Genuinely. The Tuesday thing —" he clapped Vael’s shoulder, "— you’ll be good at Tuesdays. You’re already good at Tuesdays. The roast, the inn, the —" he gestured vaguely, "— the *doves*."

"The doves weren’t my idea."

"They were *perfect*." Halric started walking — then stopped. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For —" he paused, "— for letting me be part of it. The warning. The party. All of it." He didn’t look back. "It — it helps. Being part of someone’s happy. Even when —" he didn’t finish.

Vael watched him go — down the eastern highway, toward the inn, toward the family.

Then he looked at the garment bag. At the green.

*Alive*, Halric had said.

Vael walked home — the suit over his shoulder, the dusk settling — and thought:

*Alive. That’s the word. That’s what this is.*

*Not retired. Not pending.*

*Alive.*

---

The suit was finished a week later.

Vael put it on — in the tailor’s back room, alone — and looked in the mirror.

Green. Gold lining. Scars framed, not hidden.

He looked like —

He looked like a man getting married under a plum tree.

"Well?" Fenwick said, emerging.

Vael turned. "It’s —" He didn’t have the word.

"It’s *right*," Fenwick said. "That’s the word. It’s *right*." He adjusted a sleeve — unnecessarily. "You’ll do, Mr. Astaroth."

"Just Vael," Vael said.

"Just Vael," Fenwick agreed. "You’ll do."

Vael paid — tried to overpay, was refused — and carried the suit home in a garment bag, like it was something precious.

Which — he realized, walking the eastern highway in the dusk — it was.

At the inn, Lyria was waiting — flour on her sleeves, the way she always was.

"Well?" she said.

"You can’t see it." He held up the bag. "Tradition."

"I know the tradition." She smiled. "Is it —"

"Green," he said.

"Green?" She blinked. "Not black?"

"Fenwick said black is for funerals and thrones." He set down the bag. "He said —" he paused, "— he said the suit frames scars."

Lyria was quiet for a moment. Then she hugged him — hard, flour-dusted, perfect.

"Green," she said into his shoulder. "I like green."

"Me too." He held her. "Fenwick’s a genius."

"Fenwick’s a *tailor*."

"Same thing."

Behind the counter, the crystal DINGed — warm, approving:

[Suit: ACQUIRED.]

[Color: green. (Not black. The module approves. Black is for thrones.)]

[Lining: gold. (For the occasion.)]

[Scars: framed. (Not hidden.)]

[The module notes: the host looked happy in the mirror.]

[The module notes: this is the correct emotion for a wedding suit.]

[The module wishes to note: it has prepared a wedding-day checklist.]

[The module will present it at the appropriate time.]

[The module hopes the appropriate time is soon.]

Upstairs — in the wardrobe, in the garment bag — the green suit waited.

Two weeks. Then the plum tree. Then forever.

Vael looked at his fiancée — flour on her sleeves, trouble in her smile — and thought:

*Green. The color of the yard at dusk. The color of —*

*Home.*