Roget Germyn, of Wheeling a Citizen, contemplated his wife with growing
concern.
Possibly the events of the past few days had unhinged her reason, but
he was nearly sure that she had eaten a portion of the evening meal
secretly, in the serving room, before calling him to the table.
He felt positive that it was only a temporary aberration; she
was, after all, a Citizeness, with all that that implied. A--a
creature--like that Gala Tropile, for example--someone like that
might steal extra portions with craft and guile. You couldn't live
with a Wolf for years and not have some of it rub off on you. But not
Citizeness Germyn.
There was a light, thrice-repeated tap on the door.
Speak of the devil, thought Roget Germyn most appropriately; for it was
that same Gala Tropile. She entered, her head downcast, looking worn
and--well, pretty.