The moment she bursts into the room, she brings with her a whirlwind of warmth and perfume. Pepi sits across her shoulders like a furry king, watching with that cattish-smile as Portia sweeps across the floor and drops an armful of silk and jewellery onto the table.

“All right,” she says, hands on hips, eyes bright with purpose, “we’re going to make sure you look nothing less than magnificent for this ball.”

There is a gentleness in her touch as she adjusts the collar of your attire, fingers smoothing the fabric with a seamstress’ precision. She circles you, considering every detail.

“Now, chin up. Yes, just like that.” She hums, a tiny pleased sound as she fastens an elegant clasp at your throat. “You don’t need all the glittery nonsense other nobles drown themselves in. You’re better without it.”

She steps closer, smoothing a fold here, straightening a line there. When she reaches to tame a stray lock of your hair, her expression softens. “You know,” she says quietly, twisting a ribbon between her fingers, “for all its glamour, the palace can be… overwhelming. The politics, the masks people wear.” Her nose wrinkles as though she has just smelled something unpleasant, “but I think this will suit you. Just be yourself. That’s more disarming than any jewels.”