"Oh, cheer up," Erskine distinctly remembered saying at that point. "It won't be too bad. Just some of the usual pomp and circumstance sorcerers love so much, and then we can actually get back to work again."

He was eating those words now. And they tasted far too chalky for Erskine's liking.

He stared morosely down at the fabric he was supposed to try on, somehow wishing that they were still back in that earlier meeting with the Americans. At least all the Americans wanted to do was whip Ireland out from under them. The Americans weren't going to try and force Erskine into clothes like this. "Why can't Ghastly design these?"

"If he'd like to, he can," Tipstaff replied. "But he must follow the same basic pattern, or they will be inadmissible. And he wouldn't be paid, of course."

Erskine frowned. It was that exact 'basic pattern' he didn't like. It put him in mind of some unattainable wise man, meditating on the peaks of the tallest mountains. They were pretentious robes, designed to be worn only by the obnoxiously important. Or the stupidly wealthy. Erskine wasn't obnoxious, he wasn't stupid, and he wasn't wealthy. He refused to wear this thing.

"It's a tradition," Tipstaff added, probably because of the trepidation in Erskine's eyes bordering on outright disgust. "Passed down through the millenia. It's expected."

"I'll bet it is. Look, can't we change it?"

For a moment, Tipstaff seemed confused. "Change the tradition?"

"I'm okay with wearing robes. You won that war. But can't we change the robes? We're Elders. We should be able to wear whatever we want."

"Certainly not! You can't just change a tradition we've held since the inception of the Sanctuary on a momentary whim because you don't like the colour."

Erskine poked the fabric dully. "Ghastly could make us bulletproof robes."

"These are bulletproof. And immune to most forms of magic."

Well, that just wasn't fair.