"I will not need the tonic."
Mirabel's eyes widened. Just fractionally. The rest of her face remained perfectly composed, because Mirabel was a former noblewoman who had been trained from birth to receive catastrophic news with the expression of someone being told the weather.
"I see," Mirabel said.
"You do not see. You suspect. And you will keep your suspicions to yourself, Mirabel, because if a single word of what you are thinking leaves this house and reaches anyone — anyone at all, including the cat, who I am increasingly convinced understands human speech and simply chooses not to acknowledge it — I will not set your hair on fire. I will do something considerably worse, and I will do it slowly, and you will have earned it."
"I was not going to tell the cat."
