Desmond grimaced at his reflection and immediately regretted it. Aside from his dissatisfaction at the drape of the garment, his expression of disgust only served to highlight his preternaturally caprine features. He dropped his gaze, taking a moment to allow his face to return to neutral, then breathed deeply and lifted his eyes to the mirror to examine the fabric again.
“Your tea is ready, my lord.”
Without acknowledging the actual reason Madame Serah Potts had entered his chambers, Desmond turned toward her and gestured in frustration. “I don’t think I like it, malia. Something’s not working.”
Serah raised a brow. “Do you know what?”
“The fabric itself, perhaps.” Desmond whirled to face the mirror, pulling at his chin in thought as the half-finished robes whispered around him. “It looks… cheap.”
From behind him, Serah snorted. “My lord, nothing you own is cheap.” She was the only servant in the household able to get away with such impudence, and she knew it. Desmond gave her reflection a withering look. “If I may,” she continued, setting the tea tray on the lacquered wooden table, “the fabric is fine. You’re looking at it wrong.”
Desmond tilted his head. “Am I?”
“Yes,” Serah responded definitively. “And I mean that in the most literal sense.” Producing a matchbox from the pocket of her apron, she brought the flame to life and lit the wicks of a curling silver candelabrum. Desmond watched, head still canted in confused curiosity, as she crossed the chamber to the large windows bright with mid-morning sun. One by one, she drew the curtains, darkening the room until the only light shone from the candles on the table.
Serah held up a finger for silence as she made her way back across the echoing wooden floor, lifting the candelabrum and approaching the mirror. She twirled her finger and Desmond turned obediently to face the glass. “Now how does it look?”
Desmond paused. The satin shimmered in the candlelight, moving like liquid around his slender frame. Shadows lingered in the folds of the fabric, interspersed with slices of coppery light. Slowly, he nodded. “I see.”
“It’s not a fabric meant for daylight. There’s no mystery in it. Even after dark, it’s a hard one to pull off.” Serah smirked. “You have to wear it like you mean it.”
Peering at Serah over his shoulder, Desmond offered a wry smile. “How did you get so wise?”
Serah shrugged. “I’m old. I’ve been around. Would you like the curtains opened?”
“No, thank you malia. I think I’ll work like this.” Desmond gazed into the mirror again, turning this way and that, watching the robes shift in the light. “It inspires me.”
“Suit yourself.” Serah stepped toward the door. “Don’t forget your tea.”
(Art attack for @kimbles with her Tiefling, Desmond Cagliari)
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