"I second that motion," Solomon said, staunchly ignoring the ripples of high amusement he could sense behind him. Someone was laughing and hadn't stopped. It sounded like Saint Raphael, actually. At least Ghastly's professional indignation was worth paying attention to. "I can't even take the bloody thing off." There was exasperation in his tone, no longer at Ravel but just at the situation in general. These robes were made to look good, supposedly, and while they at least also felt good, they were not made for battle or for a blind man.

He shook his head. "I give in. Someone hand me a knife, or I'll be in these forever."

"They're awful," Saint Gabriel said, and he made no attempt to hide his amusement. Solomon turned to give the Archangel an exasperated look, but the sight of the angel's grin made his lips twitch.

"You don't have to sound so happy about it."

"Who designed these?" Merlin wondered. "It wasn't you, I hope, my good man?"

"No sir," said the longsuffering tailor through slightly gritted teeth. "But my predecessor was a man of good taste and--"

"Sir," Merlin cut in, "while usually I pride myself on being a man of excellent courtesy, speaking as someone who's worn some truly awful robes in my past, those are among the worst I've ever seen."

"Let me help," Saint Gabriel said, and Solomon willingly held out his arms.

"Please do. I take back all the thoughts I had of carrying it off well."

"Oh, you do," the Archangel assured him, his fingers light but grin still broad as he found the buttons. "But there's only so much of that which can help offset the, well, robes."