Maravelle stopped once the heavy doors closed behind her. She stood glaring at the door for a moment, her blood boiling.
Then she turned sharply and stormed down the hall, her heels striking the marble with each furious step. When she reached her chamber, she slammed the door shut.
A tray of untouched food sat on the table. She snatched it up and hurled it to the floor — plates shattered, fruit rolled across the carpet. Her hands trembled with rage. She grabbed the inkpot next and threw it into the fireplace, where it burst in a hiss of black smoke.
"Fools," she said. "All of them."
A little while later Marcellus entered the chamber. His boots stepped on the broken plates and the fruits scattered on the floor. He took in the mess with a single, unimpressed glance.
"Temper, Maravelle. It doesn't suit you," he said, pouring himself a goblet of wine.
Maravelle didn't turn from where she was seated. "Don't patronize me, Marcellus."
