Ah, Rosie’s parlor. Still immaculate. Still scented with rosewater and polite judgment. A charming little den of civility—if one ignored the way her eyes sharpened at my arrival, like needles dipped in sugar.

I stepped inside with my usual grin, staff tapping lightly against the floor. Repaired. She had done a fine job, though the rigid set of her jaw suggested she’d have preferred to snap it in half instead.

“Alastor,” she greeted, tone polite, posture poised, and expression tighter than a piano wire. A delight.

“Rosie, my dear!” I chimed. “You look radiant as ever—resentment suits you wonderfully. Very flattering highlights!”

Her smile twitched. Not upward.

The table was already set—porcelain cups, dainty napkins, perfectly arranged biscuits. She gestured stiffly, offering me a seat. “Tea?”

“Oh, gladly!” I took it as if nothing at all were amiss, though the air practically crackled with her annoyance. “You always brew it so exquisitely. Truly, you’ve mastered the art of hospitality… even toward double dealers such as myself.”