The interrogation did not take place in a dungeon. It took place in the Royal Dining Hall.
It was a deliberate choice by Mirabelle. The dungeon was dark, damp, and expected. A man like Master Gilder expected to be beaten in the dark. He didn't expect to be seated at a mahogany table long enough to land a dragon, set with fine china and crystal goblets, while the Queen sat opposite him peeling a green apple.
The room was vast and cold. The fireplace was unlit. The only sound was the snick of Mirabelle's paring knife against the apple skin.
Master Gilder sat tied to a high-backed velvet chair. His expensive silks were torn from his encounter with the mob, and his face was bruised purple where a washerwoman had punched him. He was sweating, despite the chill in the room.
"Your Majesty," Gilder wheezed, eyeing the knife. "This is highly irregular. I am the head of the Merchant's Guild. I have rights. I demand a lawyer."
