Til Death

31. Frances

FRANCES

EARLIER...

"Rent a suit?" Daniel's tailor, Crawley gawked, thoroughly ruffled like a plucked chicken. The man was somehow as old as time, but younger than Frances. A mortal that smelled like cough drops, tweed, and a hint of snobbery. The man couldn't get over Frances's simple request. "Rent a suit?! Absolutely not."

Out of all the upsetting things Frances could say, this was what threw this guy over the edge. "Come on, Crawley," Frances begged, hands in pray as he laid across the man's counter. The tailor shop had the usual leather and man sweat smell, but with a few sprinkles of nutmeg from one of the many Christmas decorations.

A little Christmas tree sat in the corner, covered in bow ties and cufflinks for sale. Another one stood on the counter by Frances's elbow, offering miniature candy canes. Garlands framed all the mirrors and the counter as people long dead sang Christmas songs from the speakers. There were more women here than usual, snatching up last minute gifts and generally making it a brighter place to visit.

Frances bowed his head, smacking his forehead on the counter. "Just let me rent one for the Gala thing."

"No. You're a Prince for goodness's sake, Frances Petrovic. How could you not bring a suit of all things for your trip here? You're staying in a castle and escorting the prince that alone would call for suit. Were you not aware that you'd be attending the Christmas Gala?"

"I mean--" Frances huffed, kicking the side of the counter, probably scuffing his leather shoes, which would just enrage this man more. It was so frustrating to ask for the things he wanted. Sometimes Frances wanted a sliver of what his friend back home had. His friend, an Alpha werewolf named Eric could just ask for things and no one would question him.

No one would be needling Eric or Daniel on why they needed to rent a suit.

They'd just give it to them.

When it came to Frances apparently, he had to recite an essay and convince the world his intentions were good. "Yeah!" Frances threw his hands up, losing more and more maturity by the second. "But like I was just gonna wear whatever. No one cares what I'm doing or wearing—" Frances huffed again, tired of having to explain himself. "Old man, just take my money and let me rent a suit."

"Wear whatever?" Crawley touched his chest. "I'm appalled."

"I noticed." Frances slumped, but his words were lost on the flabbergasted man.

"Frances," Crawley started what sounded like a lecture. Frances knew the sound well. All his princely titles vanished when he needed a stern talking to. "This is unacceptable. You knew you were coming to Sagewick Castle to chaperone the prince and his fiancé." While he was talking, Frances lost control and good sense, rolling eyes. Crawley snatched the paper he was reading and whacked Frances in the head with it, his voice growing with more fervor. "You knew about this Gala and that you'd be attending the royal wedding as a groomsman. What were you thinking?"

"Alright, alright!" Frances practically begged for relief. "I get it. It was a dumb idea. I figured I could coast on the groomsman suit being picked out for me and I could just roll up in something clean for the Gala thing."

"Come to the back. We'll get your measurements..." Crawley motioned him, expecting Frances to follow and he did, tail between his legs. "If you were hoping to just coast..." Crawley quoted Frances back to him with a large helping of side eye. "Why do you want a suit now?"

"You're gonna force me to get a suit and you're gonna make me talk about my feelings?" Frances groaned, trudging up to the small platform in front of the many mirrors to show Frances his terrible posture.