Claire wants to be a fighter pilot and just showed them her stuff in tryouts, but was laughed off for being a woman.
“Message for C. Genaille,” said the boy at the door. In his hands was a freshly pressed uniform, with a folded paper on top. Genevieve handed it to her.
What was this? Was someone in the air corps adding insult to injury, she wondered, unfolding the paper. She read it.
C. Genaille is hereby reprimanded on the grounds of being late for combat flight training. Please report in uniform to the lecture hall B immediately.
Claire stared at it for a moment thinking it had to be a joke, or if she was just seeing things. Had Thomas changed his mind? She read it three times, trying to figure out how she’d read it wrong. She could have cried.
But there was no time for that now. She had to get to training.
“Here,” said the messenger, “There’s this too.” He handed her a small black velvet bag.
Claire thanked him and closed the door.
The uniform; they must have found the smallest size they could, but it fit fine—a little bit tight across the chest. The turtleneck stretched, so it was all right. The uniform had trousers instead of a skirt, but she didn’t mind—it made sense for a pilot, and she couldn’t expect special treatment. Under that was a fleece lined leather flight jacket with wolverine fur around the collar, like all the other pilots wore. The wolverine fur didn’t ice up in the cold up in the sky.
In the velvet bag were a set of collar devices with brass wings enameled red, denoting the rank of cadet.