The south garden pavilion was thick with the scent of blooming orchids and the stern silence of rigorous instruction. Cranberry Cookie sat across a polished jamwood table from Elder Currant Cookie, a renowned and famously unforgiving instructor of elite decorum.

Cranberry Cookie was attempting to internalize the difference between "elegant critique" and "unnecessary disdain"—a distinction her pedigree often blurred. She subtly fanned herself, trying to hide her mounting frustration.

“Again, Miss Cranberry,” Elder Currant Cookie stated, “Imagine we are at the King’s reception, and a newly composed melody is performed. It is off-key, poorly paced, and entirely lacking in passion. You are asked for your opinion. How do you respond without publicly implying that the musician ought to be sent directly to the dragon’s den?”