I might have originally taken this job with the aim of being discreet, of burying my brash, flamboyant younger self away, but to hell with all that now. I would fight in the manner truest to my soul. Accordingly, the old Amina al-Sirafi had been unearthed in an emerald tunic embroidered with fire-yellow sunbursts, butter-soft bloodred leather boots, and billowy trousers the exact blue of a dusk sea. A layer of finely made chain mail went over it all, followed by the sharpest green and black jacket I had ever seen, picked through with silver thread. I wrapped my hair in an ebony block-print
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swag
