"I have seen enough mimosa-fueled nonsense to last twelve incarnations of brunch!"
The wind howled theatrically, though there was no wind. A cheese plate flipped itself in fear.
Lady Summers descended the guesthouse staircase, each cork in her robe clinking ominously, her ladle-staff thudding with ancestral finality. Clarissa circled once overhead and dropped a single deviled egg onto the battlefield like a warning shot.
"I have watched as scones became siege weapons. As espresso became confession. As brunch, sacred and flakey, dissolved into an emotionally overcooked opera!" she bellowed. "But no more."
All fell silent.
Even the oat milk curdled respectfully.
Ambrose pulled himself from the koi pond, waterlogged but devoted. "She invokes… the Ladle of Last Resort."
Flynn looked to Ava. "Does she mean…"
"Yes," Ava whispered, eyes wide. "She's going full matriarch."
