I watched Lady Beatrix storm out of the dining room with a satisfaction I'd never dared feel before. The sound of something shattering against a wall outside was like music to my ears. My father shifted uncomfortably in his chair while Clara's face had turned an interesting shade of red, her knuckles white around her knife.
"Your wife seems distressed, Baron," Alaric observed casually, taking a sip of wine. "Perhaps you should check on her."
My father cleared his throat. "She'll... she'll be fine. Just a touch of nerves."
"And the maid service here is truly lacking," Alaric continued, his voice cool and measured. "I see no attendants to serve the food. Is this how you typically entertain guests of my station, Baron Reginald?"
I hid my smile behind my mask as my father squirmed. This was delicious—watching him struggle to maintain his dignity while being dressed down by Alaric.
"We're... between staff at the moment," my father mumbled. "Times have been difficult."
