Yes... and Hem decides to replace with a dangerous outfit

A man comes in off the pavement with coin already in his fist and points at you, not at Sela, because you are the one he watched finish, and Hemm takes the money while his mouth is still doing prices. He unbuckles the wine-red off your straps without taking the straps off your wrists, and the dress peels down over the heavier chest that is still Sela’s for one more minute, over the wet gusset, over the probe he has to back out so the hem will come free. You hang in the frame in nothing but the cuffs while he folds the sold dress like it is ordinary stock, and the street sees two faces that are still the same, one clothed and one stripped.

"Don’t slump," he says, already turning toward the back racks. "If I leave a gap in the glass I lose the morning."

He talks while he hunts, chalk on his fingers, running through what he actually has that has been on a body. Staff shifts that smell like steam. A noblewoman’s try-on from last winter that she did not buy. A wrapped bundle on a high shelf he has not opened since the palace stopped sending girls to stand on his stool. He laughs once, not kindly, when he remembers that one, and he brings it down like a man who has just had a useful thought he should probably not have.

Sela sees the ribbon on the paper before you do.

"Hemm," she says, and her voice goes longer because she is afraid. "That is not staff kit. You cannot put that on her in the street glass. If anyone with eyes—"

"If anyone with eyes had wanted this set they would have sent for it when she ran." He tears the paper. The lingerie is old ivory and black, worn at the straps, still holding a chest that is not Sela’s and not Lenna’s, and it smells closed-up and expensive under the dust. "She stood on my stool in this the week before she left with the other crown. I kept it because nobody was going to claim a traitor’s underthings in daylight. Now I have a muse and a gap. Hold still."

He puts it on you in the frame.

The band first, hooked behind, and it is cut for a chest that has not arrived yet, so it sits wrong until the last loop closes and then the weight hits from the inside and fills it all at once. You make a sound that is not Sela’s. Your knees change their distance to the floor again. The breasts that load the lace are larger than Sela’s were, heavy and high, perfectly balanced in a way that makes the band work instead of fight, and when Hemm draws the tiny matching bottoms up your legs the hips that meet them are not the ones that walked here from Pell’s line. Your hair slides over the strap and it is no longer auburn. It is long and blonde and it keeps coming, past the chest, and Sela’s mouth is open in the next frame as she watches her own face leave yours.

You look at the inner pane because there is nothing else to look at, and the woman in the glass has an youthful queen’s face, queen’s mouth, a queen’s figure under traitor’s lace that has already been sweated in. Charlie is only behind the eyes, and even the eyes are not the ones you had this morning.

Sela pulls at her cuffs hard enough that the leather complains.

"That is Sera," she says, not short now. "That is the woman the king still toasts against at dinner. If they think you are her come back to stand in a shop window, they will not fine Hemm. They will take you apart in the square and ask which bed you crawled out of. Take it off her. Hemm. Please."

He does not take it off. He steps the probe back up, and the machine finds this new body as easily as it found the last one, blunt and sure, filling you while your new chest moves against the lace and the blonde hair sticks to your mouth.

"If they wanted her decent they should have bought the set when she stood here the first time," he says, and he sets the frame rolling.

The probe works in you in the same short shop-thrusts as before, only now the body taking them is longer in the waist and heavier in the breast, and every roll lifts the lace so the street can see what the king used to own. You try to tell Hemm to stop and the voice that comes out is hers, lower than Sela’s, used to being listened to, and that is the worst thing you could have done, because a man on the pavement hears it and says her name out loud.

The crowd does not arrive all at once. It gathers the way a fire does, one stopped shoulder and then three, and then someone at the back who was not going to look is looking, and then the word queen is moving faster than Hemm’s prices. A woman covers a child’s eyes and does not leave. A man laughs because he is afraid. Someone says she was supposed to be dead on a road south. Someone else says if that is Sera then the king will want the window boarded with her still in it.

Sela has gone pale under the wine-red.

"They are going to think I helped," she says. "They are going to think I stood next to her. Hemm, kill the frame."

He does not kill the frame. He adjusts a strap so your breasts sit higher in the worn lace, and he talks credit at a man who is not buying anything, and the probe keeps fucking you in front of a square that has decided what it is seeing. You come because the machine does not care about kings and because this body is built to show, and the sound you make in Sera’s throat makes the crowd push closer to the glass. Wet runs the inside of the old bottoms. Your wrists pull. Blonde hair hangs over the work.

Hemm finally looks at the depth of the street and swears under his breath, which is the first sensible thing he has done since he opened the bundle.

"If Pell’s boys come I will say it is a likeness," he says, to you, to Sela, to no one. "If the palace comes I do not have a line for that. Do not open your mouth again."

You cannot answer him even if you wanted to. The frame is still rolling. The crowd is still saying her name. Sela will not look at you directly anymore, and the lace on your chest is the only thing between Wellmark and the woman they think came home.