In the quiet parlor of Lady Navarre, Antonio was lounging on the sofa, comfortably enjoying the paintings on the wall as if he were in his own home.
Winters, on the other hand, maintained an erect posture—eyes on his nose, nose in line with his mouth, mouth following the heart—sitting upright in the chair like a statue.
"Don't be so stiff," Antonio cheerfully passed a small plate of nuts to Winters, "Right now, you look just like an Ascetic Monk, the only thing missing is a flail in your hand to scourge your own back."
"Whose fault is that?" Winters retorted, irritated at the main person responsible acting as if the matter was none of his concern.
Antonio carelessly picked up a fig from the small table and slowly peeled the skin, "Haven't I accompanied you here?"
Why had Winters and Antonio come to the Navarre mansion? The reason was rather convoluted.
