The tailor had come and gone in a blur of floating measuring tapes, magical fabric swatches, and far too many unsolicited opinions about Gabriel's bone structure. He had endured it with the grace of a man pretending not to dream about locking himself in the nearest wine cellar.
The language tutor arrived shortly after, an elderly mage with no sense of humor and an insatiable obsession with vowel length. Gabriel had gone through the motions, muttering ceremonial phrases with perfect pronunciation and observing Edward's growing suspicion from the corner of his eye. He knew Old Imperial; he had to learn it, or should I say remember it, for a part of the project when some ether wave lengths had an odd pulse and only an old imperial text could provide the answer. He just didn't want Edward to know that.
Because knowing Edward, he'd simply assign him more responsibilities, "since you're clearly so capable."
