Glances flicker around the high table -- confusion, alarm, the very beginnings of understanding, a deep dismay. "Master Connors," says Lady Johanna, "please, slow down and tell us what's happened. Are you injured?"
"Let us in?" says Lord Briarwood in the same moment, his voice pitched to carry, frowning in practiced bemusement. "My good man, whatever can you mean by that? You let us in, Lord de Rolo," and he turns to the head of the table with a smile and a sweeping gesture, "and you have our gratitude for that, of course ..."
And the weight of his gaze bears down on his host, already off balance from the effects of the drugged wine.
"No!" screams Cassandra, and she seizes a half-full glass from the low table beside her and flings it, with all the strength in her arm, to shatter against Sylas Briarwood's head.
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"Let us in?" says Lord Briarwood in the same moment, his voice pitched to carry, frowning in practiced bemusement. "My good man, whatever can you mean by that? You let us in, Lord de Rolo," and he turns to the head of the table with a smile and a sweeping gesture, "and you have our gratitude for that, of course ..."
And the weight of his gaze bears down on his host, already off balance from the effects of the drugged wine.
"No!" screams Cassandra, and she seizes a half-full glass from the low table beside her and flings it, with all the strength in her arm, to shatter against Sylas Briarwood's head.