Returning to the hall, Morlia was sucking her spoon. Werlyle stared at the table. He could make a meal into a night-spanning event. He of the Shaking Hand would take up his own spoon shortly. The boy, however, moaned and piddled, swirling the soup with his finger, scowling at me as I passed.

Then I heard it; the thud, clang, and swivel of a dropped bowl.

Maggot of Hell, curse that blasted boy! His bowl thrummed on the floor as he leered over it.

But Morlia was face down in hers.

“Mother?” the boy noticed too. His yellow eyes stared at me as I saved his mother from drowning in her own dinner.

“What the burnin’ hell!” Werlyle yelled, startling me and the boy with perfect equality. “Leave her, Snier!”

Uprooting himself, red and bellowing, Werlyle careened through vacant chairs. As Uncle Werlyle approached, blind panic transfixed the boy. His eyes swung from Morlia to me, tender servant standing as I should. Would this be the dinner from Hell, young sir?

“Leave this one to me, Snier!”

I don’t think I moved. As Werlyle pointed his finger at the boy, I wondered if his diatribe on the balcony had been some sort of an attempt at an alliance.

“Butler,” the boy adjusted, desperately attempting at manners like a shield, “Butler, please stay Uncle.”

I saw the ball of webs unraveling now. My best bet was to play it cool and hope that all the goon-guards had enjoyed their soup.

All my fine planning and this was how it turned out. Werlyle had the boy on his knees. Wind from far windows entered the dining hall. I turned away and acted the butler. Milling about the place, “Does anyone need anything? A butcher’s knife here, or perhaps a hatchet?” The wind grew in strength, banging shutters at the last beautiful, regal, condescending, vile feast of the Rogaires.

“It’s time, Snier! You and me! Told you there was more.” Werlyle growled at my back, the boy pinned down by his boot. “I don’t know how, but that bitch killed him.” A furious squeak came up from below. “Once crossed—stop squirmin’—we resort back to older justice.”

My nerves frayed like gossamer between departing horses. A descent of thuds and clanks was sure to come gooning into the hall. But none did. The plan began to reform. Werlyle had spiked the soup and had attacked the boy. I would cut out his tongue and assist in dragging him to the dungeon if I had to.

A terrible hiss came up from the floor. “You dare, my father—”

Werlyle reaffirmed his boot to the boy’s throat, looking down at him with eyes that almost glowed.

For the briefest of moments, the squirming corpse in the guise of a living boy needed my help. A boy was being attacked by a man. For just a moment, I heard the jingle of orderly keys, but they were just a whisper in a dream. I found myself replacing Morlia into her final meal. A gurgle came out as tawdry make-up tainted the broth. I told myself it saved her from a more gruesome end. Perhaps I was right.