Book 4: Acting on Instinct

Michael 

Emelda moves like an agitated fledgling as she dusts lint from my shoulders. She swats my hand when I reach for my hair, shaking her head and scowling before adjusting a single rogue curl trying to fight against the hold of the hair gel she slathered through my tresses. 

“Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. Don’t bump into anything,” she instructs, stepping back to examine her work–me, in a royal uniform, all of my medals of rank displayed across my chest–and purses her lips. 

“It barely fits,” I grumble, shrugging with discomfort as the stuffy, thick fabric of the suit scrapes across my skin. 

“Take that up with the seamstresses at the castle,” she says through gritted teeth as she fights another pin through the sash. 

The ticking of the clock on the far wall fills the silence for several minutes as she puts her final touches on my outfit, finally stepping back to take me in for the hundredth time. She w