It was a brief meeting, cold, the matter quickly attended to.
After waving her servants to stand apart, she faced me with unveiled scorn:
“You daughter’s visits are making my household a difficult one,” she said.
I flushed.
“So the plaintiff has become the accused? An interesting reversal,” I murmured.
“I will expect thanks,” she said, with a mocking smile, twisting her parasol into the sand, “for sparing you public embarrassment.”
I knew she was sharpening her wits, and paused. She lifted a scented handkerchief to her mouth and took a slow breath.
“I have waited a long time for this, but I’m more charitable than you think. I won’t keep you waiting. It is Mallia—a servant boy, who has caught Kleis’ fancy...”
Vaguely, I had the flash of an image: a fair, slim, country boy, not one of the slaves.
“And what is it you want?” I said, in the same level voice.