The atmosphere in the Thistle family parlor was thick enough to choke on. It smelled of swamp water, cheap perfume, and fear.
Marquis Grieve sat on the velvet settee, his mottled green skin glistening with slime. He was eating a bowl of flies—candied, imported flies—one by one, his long tongue darting out with a wet thwip sound that made Cassia gag.
The Thistle family stood before him, looking like they had been dragged through a hedge backward. Because they had.
They were covered in mud. Lupin's face was still puffy from the hives. Barnaby was trembling. Petunia was weeping silently.
"So," Grieve croaked, swallowing a fly. "Let me understand this correctly. You went to the capital. You found my bride. And instead of bringing her back... you got chased out by a cook?"
"She has allies!" Barnaby wailed, ringing his hands. "Powerful allies! The Wolf Marquis! The Tiger General! Even the Argentis Archduke! They... they blacklisted us, My Lord! We can't buy bread!"
