Day Twelve of Tutoring.
The enemy was round, made of porcelain, and filled with a creamy mushroom bisque.
Lady Ellia stared at the soup bowl as if it were a landmine.
"This is impossible," she declared, slamming her hands on the table. "The spoon is too small! It is a ladle for ants! How am I supposed to nourish myself with this... this thimble?"
Across the table, Countess Giselle did not look impressed. She tapped her cane against the floor. Click.
"You do not 'nourish' yourself in polite society, Lady Ellia," Giselle hissed, her arm feathers rustling. "You dine. And you do so silently. Dip away from you. Skim the surface. Bring it to your lips without slumping. No slurping. No clanking."
Grand Duke Bastion, who was trying to be a supportive father by participating in the lesson, looked equally stressed. He held his own spoon with the grim determination of a man holding a grenade.
"Just... dip and lift, Ellia," Bastion whispered. "Like... like scooping water from a river."
