There's a considerable variety of dessert out here to do justice to.
Cordelia's lingering over a choice between a cream cake and a chocolate petit four, when a gruff voice speaks from the other side of the buffet table. "Dowager Countess. A pleasure to see you here."
The speaker is an aging man in a suit that manages to look vaguely military without actually being a uniform, carrying a silver-headed walking stick in a way that suggests it's more affectation than prop. He does not look or sound like it's a pleasure to see her at all; his face is pinched, his backbone rigid with disapproval.
"Lord Vorcharkov," Cordelia says, with a polite smile. "Happy Winterfair."
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Cordelia's lingering over a choice between a cream cake and a chocolate petit four, when a gruff voice speaks from the other side of the buffet table. "Dowager Countess. A pleasure to see you here."
The speaker is an aging man in a suit that manages to look vaguely military without actually being a uniform, carrying a silver-headed walking stick in a way that suggests it's more affectation than prop. He does not look or sound like it's a pleasure to see her at all; his face is pinched, his backbone rigid with disapproval.
"Lord Vorcharkov," Cordelia says, with a polite smile. "Happy Winterfair."