At the humid parlor of the Thistle Manor.
It was hot. Uncomfortably hot. And it smelled faintly of swamp water and expensive, cloying perfume.
Uncle Barnaby and Aunt Petunia sat huddled on their worn-out settee, looking like two mice cornered by a particularly ugly cat.
Sitting across from them, taking up entirely too much space on a velvet armchair that groaned under his weight, was Marquis Grieve.
He was a Toad-kin. A very rich, very cruel Toad-kin. His skin was a mottled green-grey, glistening with a faint, oily sheen. His eyes were bulging and yellow, and his throat sac puffed out slightly every time he breathed. He wore a suit of purple velvet that was straining at the buttons, and his fingers were covered in gaudy gold rings.
"So," Grieve croaked, his voice wet and rasping. "Where is she?"
"She... she is in the capital, My Lord," Barnaby stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "A... a small sabbatical. To prepare for the wedding."
