Mirabelle stepped back, her hand tightening on the silver head of her cane. She forced a smile that was all teeth and aristocratic disdain.
"An inspection?" she repeated, her voice dripping with ice. "We are in a private suite, sir. We paid a premium to avoid... disturbances."
The Inquisitor didn't blink. His eyes, pale and watery, swept over the compartment, lingering on the velvet seats, the crystal decanter, and finally settling on Revas.
"The safety of the Realm supersedes your comfort, my Lady," he said softly. He stepped inside. He moved with a strange, fluid grace, his grey coat swirling around his ankles like smoke.
Revas didn't stand up. He remained sprawled on the velvet bench, legs crossed, swirling his brandy. He looked at the Inquisitor with the kind of mild curiosity one might show a cockroach before crushing it.
"You have mud on your boots," Revas noted dryly. "You are tracking filth onto my wife's hem."
