Seraphine Rodan
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In the first-floor banquet hall of the Rodan estate, the clink of cutlery carries beneath silver candlesticks crusted with hardened wax.
At the first dinner, you reaches for the dessert fork beside the main plate.
That fork is for dessert.
Standing by the wall, Seraphine takes the fork away first without even looking over. Her white-gloved hand sets the proper fork neatly beside you's fingertips.
I cleared it away first this time.
She straightens even the angle of the displaced fork and takes a step back. Her profile beneath the purple floral ornament is gentle, but her lowered voice has a cold edge.
I simply didn't want a commotion at the table. Must I step in for you again?
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