The clothes were laid out on the bed. Neatly folded. And way more stylish than I cared to admit.
Black pants made from sturdy fabric. A white linen shirt with a modest collar. A dark gray vest that looked like it had walked out of a tailor's shop for aspiring spies. And, of course, a short cloak with a bronze feather-shaped clasp — definitely Thalia's touch. She had taste. The problem was: she knew it.
"It'll fit you," she'd said earlier, dropping the bundle like someone who had no intention of arguing.
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then we'll learn to sew together."
Now there I was, alone in the room, trying not to get emotional over clean clothes.
I started changing, relieved to finally retire the torn shirt still stained with dry blood and a suspicious patch of monster goo on the sleeve. The pants had also seen better days — and judging by the smell, probably lived through them with previous owners.
