Baroness Augusta sat behind the large, imposing desk of the Ellington textile study, a deep frown on her face as she stared at the open ledger before her.
"How were last month's sales?" Augusta asked her informant and assistant, Mr. Prescott, her voice sharp with an anxiety she was trying to hide.
Prescott, standing respectfully before the desk, cleared his throat. "Compared to the month before, Baroness," he answered, his tone carefully neutral, "they have gone down by a great margin. The rumors about the family's… instability… have made some of our patrons hesitant."
"What will I do now?" Augusta murmured to herself, a rare moment of uncertainty flashing across her features. She sighed, her mind racing for a solution. After a minute, her expression hardened again.
