The temperature of the
room has dropped to freezing before Fiona has finished speaking,
despite the roaring fire. Both women clamber to their feet, faces
set with hatred and loathing.
“Don't you dare mock
us,” says one, towering over her. “Your hopeless existence will
be very much shorter if you take that tone with us. You, dancing
with the prince, as elegant and entertaining as he is? The very idea
is tantamount to treason and will lose you your worthless head.”
“Elegant and
entertaining?” Fiona asks. “I thought he was rather dull.”
The blow that follows
is swift and brutal, a backhanded slap by a slab of a hand adorned
with many rings, gouging through Fiona's cheek and nose, sending her
backwards into the door frame, cracking her head.
