Story:

Bill Ebonhart had renamed the first-floor multifunction classroom the palace.

He had written it himself on a sheet of paper and taped it over the room’s original sign. The paper hung crookedly.

Beneath it, two student-union members stood beside the doors, wearing armbands that had belonged to the school festival committee.

Inside, someone had dragged the visitors’ sofa onto the low presentation platform.

Bill occupied its center with one arm stretched along the backrest. Shiori sat to his left, holding the announcement script he had abandoned halfway through reading.

Miffy stood at a refreshment table, searching among paper cups and an unopened box of tea bags.

“Where’s the crown?” Bill asked.

Shiori looked at him. “What crown?”

“The drama club has one.”

“We locked down an entire school,” she said. “I haven’t had time to inventory the costumes.”

“Well, send someone.”

The classroom door was locked and the curtains drawn. The lights were dim, but the man on the sofa sat like a king and feeling boring already.

“Shiori,” Bill murmured against her lower lip, “strip the uniform yourself. Must I unbutton every piece for you?”