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Summary
Even now, sullied and wanton, his lady wife holds herself with dignity.
No inkling of shame dips her chin. No trace of regret slumps her spine. She sits with her shoulders back and her hands clasped atop her brocade lap, elegantly, as though in wait for her ladies to gather over tea. Propriety drapes her as would a shield.
Beron observes this from above the rim of his glass. Bourbon hits his tongue chilled and slides down his throat molten. His hopes were that the spirit would dull the whetted edges of his ire, but it settles in his belly like cordwood on embers.
Steps sharp on the still air, he makes his approach. The cast of his shadow looms dark over her body with the hearthfire raging at his back. It is itself bright as the sun and half as hot.
Lowly, "His name."
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or: beron demands the name of the male who turned him cuckold.