"Where have you been?" hisses Malodoro as you and your company finally arrive in the Cobalt Hall, some hours later.
"A thousand apologies," says Timshel cheekily, completely misreading the Steward's volcanic mood. "The new company members got quite turned around, venturing in new parts of His Grace's domain, and delays were inevitable…"
"Far from it," harrumphs Gitel under her breath. "He's the one who wasted our time telling tales about his summer at sea."
Timshel had indeed spent much of the morning spinning yarns, seemingly oblivious to the day's high stakes. Malodoro, in a black robe and crimson hair-combs, fills the air with chopping motions to stop Timshel from ensnaring her in his endless anecdotes.
"We haven't time. His Grace has received the dignitaries on the front lawn. They will have drinks and snuff in the parlor for no more than three-quarters of an hour before they will install themselves here."
Onward