100 Failed Dates

Chapter 5: The Sartorial Solution

"It started with a C-sharp," Chronis said, his voice dropping to a weary murmur. "And it just went downhill from there."

Mirelle didn’t move. She didn't blink. The pink glitter on her eyelashes caught the light, making her look like a celestial being made of sugar and confusion. "A hundred and four times," she whispered. "You’ve watched me fail that extraction a hundred and four times?"

"Technically, I only saw the explosion forty times. After that, I started bringing you tea before you hit the critical temperature," Chronis admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "But look, Mirelle... look at us. Look at me. I’m covered in strawberry-scented soot, I’ve got a scholarship that’s hanging by a thread, and I’m pretty sure Adrian Westfall is currently plotting my accidental demise in the training pits."

"You really did all this to impress me?" she asked, her voice hovering between touched and terrified.

"I did it to get a second of your time," Chronis said. "But look at this. I’m a mess. If I’m going to stand next to you at the Gala—if I’m actually going to be the person you deserve—I can’t do it looking like a pink marshmallow."

Mirelle looked him up and down, a small, genuine laugh finally bubbling up. "You really do look ridiculous, Chronis."

"I know. And I’m going to fix it. I’m going to go from 'glitch in the system' to 'guy you actually want to be seen with' in the next two hours."

"Two hours? The Gala starts at seven, Chronis. It’s already late afternoon."

"Then I’d better move," he said, offering her a wink that he’d practiced in at least ten different loops. "Stay beautiful, Mirelle. Try not to blow up Lab 4-C until I get there."

He turned and bolted, leaving the pink haze behind. He didn't head for the dorms. He headed for the North Wing, where the air smelled of expensive silk and desperate ambition. He kicked open the door to the Academy’s Design Atelier with a bang.

"Vivienne! Helena! I need a miracle, and I need it before the sun hits the horizon!"

A tall, razor-thin girl with hair the color of midnight and eyes like predatory hawks looked up from a mannequin. She was holding a pair of enchanted shears that hummed with a dangerous blue light.

"By the Goddess," Vivienne gasped, dropping her shears. "Helena, get the smelling salts. A strawberry-scented crime against humanity has just walked into my sanctuary."

"On it," a shorter, blunt-featured girl muttered from behind a rack of velvet robes. Helena stepped out, holding a measuring tape like a whip. "Gross. Is that... edible glitter, Chronis?"

"Long story," Chronis panted. "Vivienne, I need a suit. Not a 'scholarship student' suit. I need the 'Westfall-is-a-peasant-compared-to-me' suit. The one you keep in the locked vault for the Duke’s son."

Vivienne circled him like a shark, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "The Midnight Cerulean? With the mana-thread embroidery? Honey, you can't afford the buttons on that jacket."

"I’ll pay you in information," Chronis said, stepping closer. "I know that the shipment of gold-leaf you ordered from the southern coast was hijacked by goblins this morning. I also know that if you don't have it by tomorrow, your entire spring collection is ruined."

Vivienne froze, her eyes narrowing. "How could you possibly know about the shipment? The courier hasn't even arrived to tell me it’s late."

"Lucky guess," Chronis smirked. "Help me, and I’ll tell you exactly which cave the goblins are hiding in. You can send the Academy guards and have your gold-leaf back by dinner."

Vivienne exchanged a look with Helena. The shorter girl shrugged. "He’s weird, Viv. But he’s usually right about these things. Remember the fire in the laundry room?"

"Fine," Vivienne snapped, pointing a finger at his chest. "Helena, strip him. I want every speck of that pink filth gone. Scrub him until he bleeds if you have to. I will not have my silk touching... that."

"Wait, strip?" Chronis blinked.

"Don't be a baby," Helena grunted, grabbing his arm with a grip like iron. "Into the washroom. Now. We have ninety minutes to turn a frog into a prince."

The next hour was a blur of agonizing precision. Chronis was shoved into a tub of magically heated water that smelled of citrus and lye. Helena scrubbed his skin with a coarse brush until he was sure he was missing a layer of dermis.

"Ow! Easy on the shoulders! I need those for the dance!"

"Hold still," Helena muttered, dumping a bucket of cold rinse water over his head. "You’ve got muscles, I’ll give you that. Too bad you dress like a stable boy."

Once he was dry and vibrating from the sheer intensity of the cleaning, he was hauled out to the main floor. Vivienne was waiting, draped in measuring tapes that moved on their own, snaking around his limbs like silk cobras.

"Stand on the pedestal," Vivienne commanded. "Chest out. Chin up. Stop slouching, you look like you’re apologizing for existing."

"I’m tired, Vivienne! I’ve had a very long day!"

"We’ve all had a long day, darling. Helena, the pins! The silver ones!"

As Vivienne draped the heavy, shimmering fabric over his shoulders, Chronis felt the magic within the cloth. It was cold, deep, and impossibly smooth.

"Is this... dragon-scale silk?" he asked, wincing as a pin pricked his side.

"Keep talking and I’ll pin your tongue to your palate," Vivienne hissed. "It’s obsidian-glass weave. It reacts to the ambient mana. If you get angry, it turns a sharp violet. If you’re calm, it stays deep blue. It’s a masterpiece. Don't you dare sweat in it."

"I’m trying not to bleed in it!" Chronis retorted as Helena tightened a cinch around his waist. "Can I breathe? Is breathing allowed in high fashion?"

"Breathing is optional," Helena said, tugging the strap even tighter. "Looking like a god is mandatory. Put your arms up."

"I feel like a sausage," Chronis groaned.

"A very expensive, very handsome sausage," Vivienne corrected, stepping back to survey her work. She flicked her wrist, and the enchanted shears flew through the air, trimming the hem with a shower of sparks. "The embroidery on the cuffs is silver-leafed willow. It matches Mirelle’s favorite pendant."

Chronis paused, his annoyance softening. "You noticed that?"

"I’m a stylist, Chronis. I notice everything. Why do you think I’m helping you? You’re the only boy in this school who actually looks at her instead of her grades."

"She’s incredible," Chronis whispered.

"She’s a headache," Helena added, though there was a hint of a smile on her lips. "Now, boots. These are enchanted with a feather-fall charm. You’ll be the lightest person on the dance floor. Just don't kick anyone, or they’ll fly halfway to the rafters."

"How much time?" Chronis asked, looking at the grandfather clock in the corner.

"Ten minutes until the Grand Opening," Vivienne said, her voice turning frantic. "Quickly! The hair! Helena, get the pomade! The one that smells like cedar and victory!"

"No, not the pomade! I hate that stuff!"

"Sit down and shut up!" both girls screamed in unison.

Chronis sat. He endured the tugging, the combing, and the application of various oils that made his hair feel like it had been sculpted by a master mason. By the time Vivienne stepped back and held up a mirror, he didn't recognize the man staring back.

He looked sharp. Dangerous. The Midnight Cerulean suit hugged his frame perfectly, the silver embroidery catching the light like stars on a moonless night. His hair was slicked back just enough to look intentional, and his eyes... for the first time in a hundred loops, they didn't look tired. They looked ready.

"Wow," Chronis breathed. "I... I actually look like I belong there."

"You look like you own the place," Vivienne said, wiping a smudge of soot from her own cheek. "Now go. If you’re late, I’ll tell everyone you still wear bunny-rabbit socks."

"I don't—never mind. Thank you, Vivienne. Seriously."

"Save the gratitude for the goblin cave location!" she yelled as he bolted for the door.

Chronis sprinted down the hallway, the feather-fall boots making every step feel like he was running on clouds. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the Academy was glowing with thousands of floating mana-lamps. He could hear the distant strain of the orchestra—the opening waltz.

"I can make it," he hissed to himself, rounding a corner near the Grand Ballroom. "I can actually make it on time for once."

The marble floors were polished to a mirror finish. He saw the doors ahead, the golden light spilling out into the hallway. He saw the students in their finery, the laughter, the magic. Everything was perfect.

And then, he saw the puddle.

It was a shimmering, iridescent swirl of liquid right in the center of the hallway. It smelled faintly of elderberry and ozone—a volatile stabilization potion. Estelle, a clumsy first-year alchemist, must have dropped it during the pre-Gala rush.

"Wait—" Chronis gasped, his eyes widening.

In any other loop, he would have known it was there. He would have stepped around it. But this was the one loop where he’d been distracted by Vivienne’s needles and Helena’s scrubbing. This was the one loop where he was finally living in the present.

His right boot hit the slick surface.

The feather-fall enchantment, designed to make him light, suddenly worked against him. Without the friction of his weight, his feet flew out from under him with terrifying speed.

"No!" Chronis yelled, his arms flailing.

He went airborne, the Midnight Cerulean suit fluttering like a broken wing. Time seemed to slow down—a sensation he was all too familiar with—as the marble floor rushed up to meet him.

SPLAT.

He didn't just fall. He slid. He slid fifteen feet across the floor, straight toward the open doors of the ballroom, finally coming to a stop right at the feet of the Royal Council's head inquisitor.

The music stopped. A hundred heads turned.

Chronis looked up, his perfectly sculpted hair now draped over his eyes, his face inches away from a pair of very expensive, very polished dragon-hide loafers.

"Nice entrance," a familiar, mocking voice drawled from the crowd.

Chronis groaned, closing his eyes as the smell of elderberry potion filled his nostrils. "Not again," he whispered. "Please, not again."