The sound of loud knocking at his door dragged Noah from sleep like a bucket of cold water.

He groaned, rolling onto his side. What the hell was someone doing at his door at this time of the morning?

The sunlight leaking through the curtains was too bright, and far too cheerful for how early it felt.

Whoever was knocking was persistent though, and after the fourth round of knocks, Noah gave up trying to ignore it.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. "I'm coming!"

He swung his legs off the bed, wincing at the chill of the floor under his feet, and shuffled to the door.

When he pulled it open, the last thing he expected was to see a short man with a neatly trimmed curly moustache and an air of judgment already on his face.

The stranger stood there with his arms crossed and a large rolling rack of clothing beside him.

"Ah, finally," the man said gruffly, as if Noah had made him wait an eternity. "You're awake."

Noah blinked, disoriented. "Who are you?"

The man gave a deep, dramatic sigh and wheeled the rack into the room without waiting for permission.

"So this is the great Noah Webb, hm? The ripper of new ones, was it?"

"The reaper." Noah grumbled, feeling like he should at least defend himself.

The man ignored his words, his eyes darted over Noah's disheveled appearance, the bed hair, rumpled sleep shirt, and bare feet, and his moustache twitched.

"Good gods, you look like you've been mugged by your own bedsheets."

Noah frowned, utterly confused about who the hell the man was. "You woke me up to insult me?"

"Not at all," the man said briskly, already tugging the curtains open to flood the room with light. "I woke you up because Professor Cecilia asked me to make sure you don't humiliate her, or the entire academy, at the Winter Ball."

That woke Noah up instantly. "Oh."

He rubbed the back of his neck, remembering Cecilia's words from yesterday. "You must be the person she said she'd send."

"Obviously." The man turned to face him properly, placing one hand on his hip.

"Nigel St. Claire, master tailor, designer of noble regalia, and, unfortunately for both of us, your personal stylist for the morning."

Noah blinked. "Right. Nice to meet you, Nigel."

"I wish I could say the same," Nigel replied dryly, circling Noah once like a hawk sizing up a particularly disappointing meal.

His eyes narrowed, lips pursed. "Hmm. Broad shoulders, lean build, unruly hair, poor posture," he paused, "well, terrible posture, actually."

"But you know what I can't fix? That expression on your face screaming 'I'd rather be anywhere else.'"

"Because I would," Noah muttered.

Nigel ignored him, humming thoughtfully as he pulled a few garments from the rack. "You, my dear boy, are a stylistic challenge."

Noah's brow twitched. "Thanks, I guess."

"It wasn't a compliment." Nigel held up a crisp white shirt, a waistcoat, and a black tailcoat, arranging them against his chest as if imagining the result.

"For a royal ball, you'll need full evening dress. Tailcoat, waistcoat, bow tie, the works."

"Sounds… excessive," Noah said flatly.

"It's tradition," Nigel said, with the tone of a man explaining gravity to a child.

"And since you lack house colors or a family crest, we're limited to black and white. Again, tradition."

"Which means we'll have to rely on texture, cut, and, if I'm being generous, your face to make an impression."

"Generous, huh?" Noah said dryly.

Nigel smirked. "You catch on quick. Now, off with whatever it is you're wearing. Try these on."

"Here?" Noah eyed the man suspiciously.

"Where else? The roof?" The man raised a brow in return.

Noah scowled but did as told, slipping into the crisp white shirt, then the waistcoat, and finally the tailcoat.

The fabric was soft and a tad bit heavier than he expected, but Nigel's expectant stare made it impossible to feel comfortable.

When he turned, Nigel's expression was one of horror. "Oh, no. No, no, no."

"What?" Noah looked around, alarmed.

Nigel pinched the bridge of his nose. "You look like a penguin who lost a bar fight."

Noah's expression flattened. "That's… specific."

"Do you see this crease? This angle? The coat doesn't complement your shoulders, the waistcoat is too stiff, and the collar, don't get me started on the collar."

Nigel threw his hands up dramatically. "Take it off before I faint."

Noah grumbled, shrugging out of the clothes. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"I assure you, I'm not." Nigel moved swiftly, plucking another set from the rack, this one with a deeper black waistcoat and silk lapels. "Try these instead."

Noah slipped into the new set, already growing tired of the process.

When he turned around this time, Nigel's expression softened, just slightly.

"Better," he said grudgingly. "You almost look like a functioning member of society."

"Almost?"

"But," Nigel said, cutting him off with a raised finger, "you look miserable. Which ruins the entire effect."

"Maybe because I am miserable," Noah muttered.

Nigel groaned dramatically, massaging his temples. "You are impossible."

He circled Noah again, adjusting his collar, the cuffs, and tugging the hem of his jacket until it sat just right. "Alright, fine. This one works. But it's… conventional."

Noah looked at himself in the mirror and grimaced. "I look ridiculous."

Nigel blinked. "Ridiculous? You look respectable."

"Not quite," Noah said. "I look like I'm trying too hard to look respectable."

The tailor stared at him for a moment, then sighed heavily. "You know what? You might be right."

He muttered something under his breath before snapping his fingers. "Fine. Let's try something you'll actually like."

He rummaged through the rack again, finally pulling out a darker combination. Black with subtle charcoal accents, the fabric matte, with faint thread patterns that shimmered under light.

The waistcoat was minimalist, the bow tie a darker shade of gray.

"Here," Nigel said, handing them over. "Try this. If this doesn't work, I'll quit."

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