Petra set the oil down and wiped her hands on a cloth. "Your Grace, may I suggest something?"
"You may."
"Your wolf is beautiful."
The sentence landed in the parlor with the precision of a woman who had spent years learning exactly which compliments opened which doors in Bellatrix Drakenfell's decision-making architecture.
Bellatrix paused. The pause was the pause of a woman hearing a truth she already knew being stated by someone else, and the stating was producing a warmth that she would never acknowledge aloud but was currently heating the center of her chest.
"She is," Bellatrix agreed. The agreement was immediate and carried zero humility. "The purple is rare. The purple is exquisite. I have been told my wolf is one of the most striking in Drakenfell's history, and I have been told this by people who were afraid of me, which means it was true because frightened people do not waste lies on compliments."
"A pack run, Your Grace."
