“Yes, Your Eminence.” Celestina stepped back from the door, which blew open with such force I think it might have made a dent in the wall. In stormed the Paragon, his white mustache drooping past his chin, his long, silvery hair wild and disheveled, and his robes—an impressive silk brocade with embroidered feathers that I swear moved across the fabric—were wrinkled. He drew himself up, sticking his craggy nose high in the air like a pouting kid. “You two are so mean!”
