"With me, Thomas," you say, pulling him from the workbench. He hands the half-mended cap back to Brute, who clasps it with both arms and gnaws its brim lovingly. You feel your passages growing seasoned for battle. [+Bile]
Steward Fig is in his chambers sipping bone broth from a mug when you storm in. He wipes his lips as you explain the situation, with Tom chiming in with details at your prompting, tho' in excessively self-effacing tones.
"Full sorry I am, Goodman Fletcher, that Dame Fortune treated you so ill," Fig says at last, clearing his throat, "but absent clear proof of malfeasance, raising this accusation would only embarrass the Baroness Kiell, and disrupt the diplomatic business His Majesty needs to transact."
Tom bows and steps backwards towards the exit, having been ready to leave from the moment you dragged him from his tools. You regard Fig's face for just a moment longer.