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Febblekeck appeared taken aback.
    “Excuse me, Your Highness?” Lord Oren appeared torn between anger and uncertainty. “I . . . believe I misheard you.”
    Armand took a drink, then returned his cup to the table. “Lady Yvette has the complexion of a plucked boar, and her voice grates the very soul. Febblekeck might as well seduce one of the hunting dogs from the kennel.”
    Oren’s cheeks went blood red. His hands balled into fists. Talia swore softly and moved to the left, to better intercept him if he forgot himself and lunged for the prince.
    “Forgive my son,” said King Theodore, speaking for the first time since dinner began. He stared at Armand as though seeing a stranger. “Beatrice’s death has been a strain upon us all, but grief is no excuse for such behavior. My apologies, Lord Oren.”
    Armand stood. “Do we now beg forgiveness for speaking the truth?”
    “Armand, sit down.” Danielle grabbed his hand, but he pulled away.
    “I take no orders from commoners.”
    Danielle jerked back as though struck. Lady Jeraldsen started to speak, trying to intervene, but Armand ignored her.
    “You’ve nothing to fear,” he went on. “Oren is a fat old coward, no threat to anyone.”
    Oren snarled and started toward the prince, one arm pulled back to strike.
    Talia hooked her arm through Oren’s and yanked him off-balance. A kick to the back of his leg spilled him to the floor. “Would you assault the Prince of Lorindar in his own hall?” Talia whispered.
    Oren shoved her away and pushed himself upright. His hands were shaking and his face was red, but he made no further move toward the prince. Armand stood with arms folded, an expression of boredom on his face.
    Talia glanced around the table, making sure nobody tried to take advantage of the chaos. Most of the assembled nobles had risen and backed away, distancing themselves from the fight. Danielle was talking to the king. Febblekeck had flown up to the rafters.
    “Have you suffered humiliation enough?” Armand asked. “If being knocked down by a servant doesn’t satisfy your need to look the fool, perhaps I could summon a young child to trounce you next.”
    Oren moved before Talia could stop him. She couldn’t tell which of the two men struck first as they crashed together. Oren punched the prince in the jaw, even as Armand buried his fist in Oren’s stomach. Talia jumped onto the table, dancing between plates and platters as she grabbed a silver pitcher of wine and emptied the contents over both men.
    Oren sputtered and reached for Talia. She swung the pitcher, which rang like a gong against his knuckles. He howled and spun away.
    “Enough!” King Theodore’s voice thundered through the hall. “If either of you so much as sneer at the other, I will have you both locked away. Is that clear?”
    Armand gave his father an exaggerated bow. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty.” Without another word, he spun and left the hall.
    Oren was clutching his fist. The knuckles had already begun to swell. “My deepest sympathies on the death of your wife, King Theodore.” He stared after Armand. “I hope you’ll forgive me if my family chooses not to attend the funeral. We will be departing tonight.”
    Talia returned to Danielle’s side. “What just happened?”
    “That was not the man I married.” Danielle shook her head. “I’ve seen him angry, but never cruel.”
    Oren and Yvette were already leaving—through a different doorway than the one Armand had used, thankfully. The rest of the people slowly settled back into their seats, all save Febblekeck. The pixie remained overhead, giggling to himself as he sipped his drink.
    “Armand has insulted you like that once before,” Talia said. “When he was under your stepsisters’ spell.”
    “Get Snow.” Danielle left to follow her husband.
    Talia palmed a roll from the table as she slipped away. She glanced back to make sure Febblekeck’s attention was elsewhere. There was one last