Duke Voran, watching the terrifying Reaper of the North meticulously cut meat into bite-sized cubes for a six-year-old, looked as if his entire worldview was collapsing.
The heavy, iron-wrought doors at the far end of the dining hall suddenly swung open with a dramatic, echoing groan.
Seraphina paused mid-chew, looking up.
Marching into the room was a girl who looked to be about eight or nine years old.
She was, without a single shadow of a doubt, the biological daughter of Duke Reginald Voran.
Lady Drusilla was a miniature version of her father's worst aesthetic impulses.
She was a sturdy, scowling child with the same bright, wiry orange hair, which had been aggressively curled and pinned up with heavy gold barrettes that looked like they were giving her a migraine.
She was wearing a dress that defied comfort.
