Closed Needles & Glass
There was a flash of hurt across his face, which morphed into indignation.

“Dishonest?” he repeated. “Dishonest! Dishonesty is skulking about under the cover of secrecy, expecting those around you to ignore who you truly are!”

Then, a man came onto the scene. Discouraged, Angel put the mirror back on the hook.

It teetered precariously. Very precariously.

“Certainly, sir,” Angel said, not noticing the very relevant part of there being the smell of tea but no actual tray. “Thank you.”
Her fists held her in place but her eyes widened and swam like little frightened ponds. Who was he, then? Satan?

She froze much like Florian as the Marquess addressed him, but her fists relaxed some knowing he was at least present. At length she encouraged herself to go back to sit with the girls. Murmur to them reassuringly. Then imagine herself slapping him, hurling the mirror into his face. Stabbing him with knitting needles. It was all she could do.
Florian didn't wait to run and get the tray. He missed Delia's reaction, and returned a bit short of breath and having spilled a little tea on the way. "Your Lordship." He tried to straighten his back, as the butler so oft would chide about.

Stiff as a stick,
Cold as marble
Light as a spirit

Wait, wasn't that the one about ghosts lifting you into the air?

He put the tray on an end table. Then poured four cups without asking. Surely he would be sacked.

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