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And secondly, she made the problem entirely clear. I was so revolted by Kajarin that I hadn’t realized… that she was flirting. Trying to take another man to bed… in front of her husband.
Wroth said nothing, his jaw tight.
Cirri ended her thoughts with a wide, sweeping movement, not just knocking over, but sending a glass of wine flying—straight into Kajarin’s face. The woman cried out as the wine stung her eyes, dripping over her cleavage and staining the expensive pink silk, beading on her diamonds.
My wife made expansive gestures of apology, offering a napkin and doing a rather flawless impression of embarrassment and dismay. The Lady of the Rivers waved her away, gasping and wiping wine from her face, but the dress was a loss.
Kajarin stood up, wiping her eyes so that kohl stained them in a raccoon’s mask. “Please—please excuse me,” she stammered, and she rushed from the room.
A painful silence fell, no one wanting to meet anyone else’s gaze. Cirri sat down slowly, smoothing her dress over her lap before taking my hand under the table. She was shaking with rage.
Wroth drank the last of the blood, dropping his goblet.
“And now you see,” he said, his voice utterly flat and dead.