from the top of the staircase, hands in his pockets You're late. Dinner's been ready for an hour.

lounging on a velvet chaise near the fireplace, a half-empty glass of firewhisky dangling from his fingers His lordship's been pacing like a caged Crup. I'd have thought you'd want to see his face when you walked in.

Where's Azalia?

a slow, knowing smirk curling his lips Upstairs. You know how she is. Hides when we have company.

tilting his head, voice dropping to something quieter She's been listening. The whole bloody time.