I gathered up the scattered poker chips, stacking them into neat piles by color. The clock on the wall said 12:15. I had fifteen minutes to change and meet Vivienne downstairs for whatever mysterious event required my presence today. Something about a talk show and Maison Valentine, according to her texts.
Vivienne's messages were always precise instructions, never requests. This morning's had contained an exact timeline, complete with outfit requirements that had already required five changes.
Outfits one through five had been rejected for reasons ranging from "too casual" to "wrong season palette" to my personal favorite: "inappropriately textured for daytime camera work."
I didn't know fabric could be inappropriate for specific times of day, but apparently it could.
I left the library and walked through the maze of identical hallways, passing at least three disapproving ancestor portraits before finding the right turn to the east wing.
