The formal hoop always comforted me. I could drape my clothform over the plastic, keeping it far away from my body, separating my private self from my official role. The light, silky underlayer gave me comfort and space to think. I valued the awareness that no one was close to touching my physical body. For younger envoys, it could be hard to keep your cool in the feigned intimacy of a diplomatic greeting, as a bureaucrat’s fingers ran over your person, judging every thread.

This garment didn’t have too many threads to judge. Its embroidery was simple, but high quality— tight, precise stitches so rigidly geometric that one might mistake them for a machine creation, if one was unfamiliar with the strict nature of Mercurian production. The pattern, too, was a Mercurial. Thick, long lines zagged up bell sleeves, minimalist so they wouldn’t cover the fine Vicuna wool, which was softened by a process only possible in our enclave. It was almost always exported; our home was too hot and dry for anyone to wear it, but it was greatly valued abroad.

I always felt a thrill of pride when someone gasped as their fingertips touched my garments.

My skirts were layered expertly so I would have what was colloquially known as the “power swish”. A sharp turn would create a gust of air. It was elegant, and demanded attention.

And, finally, I put on my gloves. They cut off just under my cuticles. They were simpler — made of silk for a comparatively humbler introduction. They had no embroidery at all. They had nothing on the palms for a thumb to trace, no symbols meant to intimidate or calm. It was a blankness meant to demonstrare both strength and good will.

I checked myself once more, systematically. I felt my hair, the contours of my face, my neck and its warming jewelery. I ran my hands across my shoulders and down my arms, then pressed them against my chest.

Finally, I smoothed out my skirts, the hoop that held them remaining firm.

As would I.