The strange invitation into their realm—or lesson, or trial, whatever this was—didn't last long in silence.
As soon as the mature masked woman had finished guiding me through her refined instruction, her touch retreating like silk being pulled from my shoulders, another presence stepped forward with the sound of polished shoes against stone.
It was his turn now.
The black-masked man.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he clicked his tongue with a slow shake of his head, arms crossed behind his back like a disapproving noble. "You certainly lack both elegance and refinement. While your table manners have improved—thanks to Miss Red's rather patient teachings—you still lack the poise required to truly belong in a place such as this."
He walked in a slow circle around me, observing every inch of how I sat, breathed, blinked—even how my fingers idled on the edge of the fork.
There was no rest between his corrections.
