Rensa was having a wedding dress fitting. Verrin, the designer, was making adjustments for her blossoming curves and selecting the exact shade of the contrasting flounce. Fortunately Verrin was one of those people who thought Rensa should return to a healthy weight so there were no professional or artistic tantrums from the older, orange haired woman.
“So, who are the attendants going to be?” Verrin was marking things with pins as she spoke.
“It hasn’t been decided yet,” Mirren admitted. “It’s a bit…difficult.”
“I’m marrying my only remaining, living relative,” Rensa added, looking over her shoulder at herself in the mirror, “So I don’t have my parents to escort me and my childhood friends…,” she trailed off.
“It is usual,” the designer pointed out, “To at least provide one formal witness. Of course, the Emperor could provide all of them but that’s likely to look a little odd.”
“I have been thinking,” Rensa said slowly, “That as I can’t have my parents, I might have the two men who pulled me out of that storeroom to escort me to the ceremony.” She paused to twist her head to look over the other shoulder, “After all, they were the ones who decided not to kill me out of hand.”
“They’re not members of my family,” Mirren said consideringly, “That would be a good thing. The ideologues will probably love it. I wonder where they are and how they wash up? Yannic can have someone track them down if he doesn’t know already.”
“If they’re available,” put in Verrin, “You’ll have to decide whether they’re going to wear something of their own or something specially made.” More pins carefully inserted. “Frankly you’re probably just about out of time for the latter.” She added, poker faced, “I can, of course, suggest a few places.”