We sit in awkward silence, looking anywhere but at each other. My father's eyes peer through the latticework, his expression unreadable. I fumble with my fingers.
"Are you mad I took too long in the restroom? I couldn't find it," I murmur sheepishly, breaking the silence first.
The pastries sit on the table forlorn.
"No," he responds, curt as ever. "What is it you wished for me to see?"
It's a well-timed change in subject and mood, and none too soon, as I see Lady Arabella garbed in black take the stand.
The crowd's mutters reach my ears.
"All black? What bad luck," someone tutted.
"The esteemed Lord Berrick can do better than this woman." Titters followed the comment.
