Benedict Roe stood in the hall with his wife's cut hand in his, and the white handkerchief was already turning red.
The donors had gone, and the broken china still lay on the floor.
Priscilla: Well, well. The tray boy's wife is leaking all over the Dunley stone.
Priscilla: Fetch a rag and wipe it up before the guests see what this family dragged in.
Priscilla: Everybody in Bellcrest knows you opened your legs for the mop man.
Priscilla: You are the Dunley whore with a wedding ring, and he is the rag you wipe the floor with.
Two staff women stopped with their trays and did not look away.
Priscilla took her cut hand and squeezed it inside the handkerchief.
The cloth went red under her fingers, and Marielle's knees bent so fast she had to hold the table.
Marielle: Let go. Please.
Then she shoved her, and Marielle's shoulder and head hit the wood panel of the hall.
Her skull cracked against the panel, and the cut on her hand opened again and marked the stone.
Priscilla: There. Now you look like what you are.
Priscilla: One word to anyone, and my father's driver and his two friends take your husband for a ride.
Priscilla: They will leave him where the river smells, and nobody will ask a single question.
Marielle believed her. Her mouth went dry, and she could not make her cut hand stop shaking.
Alfred Dunley came down the hall with his arms already open, and the staff stepped back out of his way.
Alfred: There is my daughter. Come here, Marielle. This family honors you tonight.
Priscilla moved to his other side, and he patted her hand first.
Alfred: At the Trust Dinner you will stand at my table, and every donor in this city will watch you take your place.
Alfred: A place of honor. You will see what a Dunley name is worth.
Veronica: Smile, Marielle. You are dripping on the carpet.
Benedict took her elbow and walked her out of that hall without asking anyone's leave.
Alfred: Roe. I am still talking to my daughter.
Benedict: She is bleeding, Alfred. The talk can wait.
The study door clicked shut, and he lifted her onto the desk and peeled the wet cloth off her palm.
Benedict: Who did this?
Marielle: Priscilla. She said she will have you taken to the river and left there.
Benedict: No. She will not.
Benedict: Hear me, Marielle. I will not let anyone insult you.
Benedict: Not your cousin. Not your mother. Not one donor in this city.
Marielle: You say that like it is easy.
She kissed him then, hard, with her cut hand in his hair.
He gave the kiss back and drew her forward until her knees met his hips, and the navy skirt rode up her thighs.
Marielle: Do not be careful with me.
She climbed onto his lap in the wide chair and put one knee on either side of him.
The old wood creaked, and she pressed down and rolled her hips slow.
Benedict: Marielle.
Marielle: Do not stop.
His hands went under her blouse and up her bare back, warm and sure.
He was hard beneath her, and when she rocked once more her breath came out ragged at his ear.
He caught her hips in both hands and held her still.
Benedict: Not in this room. Your cousin is one wall away and your hand has not stopped bleeding.
Marielle: You pick the worst moment to be a gentleman.
Benedict: I want a whole night. Not a desk and a locked door.
Marielle: How do you keep so quiet? She put her hands on me and you never moved.
Benedict: Practice.
Marielle: Practice at what?
Benedict: At being called nothing. And at knowing what I can do to the ones who say it.
Down the hall Alfred was still saying the word honor, and Priscilla was still standing at his right hand.
Marielle looked at her husband's calm face and wondered what he was waiting for.