The dim light of the carriage lantern cast long, dancing shadows across Philip's face, making his expression seem even colder. Lewis shifted uncomfortably on the seat opposite him, the weight of his own conscience a heavy burden.
"Your Grace," Lewis began, his voice hesitant but firm. "I don't think that's right."
Philip, who had been staring out at the darkened city streets, slowly turned his head. His eyes, barely visible in the gloom, were devoid of any warmth. "What did you say?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
Lewis swallowed hard, knowing he was on thin ice, but he felt compelled to speak. "I mean, we didn't check the quality of the dyes. We knew they were cheap, but we were trying to meet the deadline for the spring line collection. We were rushing, especially after using so much of the operating money to buy off the new port officials…"
