[Lavinia's POV—The Royal Dining Table of Doom, Continued]
My brain was buffering harder than a crystal ball on dial-up.
Papa's stare hadn't budged. Not an inch. Not even a blink. At this point, I was 97% sure he'd trained with the Royal Statues on how to glare judgmentally without moving a single eyebrow hair.
And me?
Oh, I was spiraling. Dramatically. Elegantly. Like a doomed opera heroine in a gown made of bad decisions.
Was this the part where he'd pull out a scroll and start reciting my sins like a holy exorcist? Would fire rain from the chandeliers? Would a town crier burst in yelling, "Lavinia of House Dramatis, you stand ACCUSED!"?
I cleared my throat like a Very Innocent Princess™ and attempted the ancient art of Distraction Through Dessert.
"So… um… dessert?"
Nothing.
I offered a polite, hopefully-unbanishable smile. "Would you care for some royal plum pudding, Your Grumpiness? Or maybe a lovely bowl of 'please-don't-ground-me-for-life' forgiveness cookies?"
