The herald leads you through a maze of marble hallways to a small gallery. Malodoro is supervising a brace of laborers as they hang a whole collection of oil paintings of tedious tidepools and somnolent sunsets.
"To me, Bandochel," the Steward says after the briefest glance in your direction.
"Salutations, Chief Steward," you say, politely as you can manage at this hour, as you walk towards her.
"Your thoughts concerning the performance last night?"
You frown. Malodoro is making no effort to look at you, so you have trouble gleaning any intent from her expression. Why on Earth would she ask your assessment—and what should you say?