Oh, Voltur. Good guard dog.

He sighs. “I may try, but I cannot sing forever. And I fear dear Edmund will soon become wise to that trick. What do you suggest, Your Grace?”

He doesn't glance at the elf, doesn't take his eyes off Edmund, but does turn his head a little in the elf's direction. 

"A demonstration."

He marches up to the young... dragon... and stands over it. Glares sternly. "And what do you call this?" Now that is the "this time the General is in fact angry and it is, in fact, you who have fucked up" voice. 

HISSSSS.

"Don't you dare hiss at me. Go to your corner and stay there. Now."

It jumps forwards and tries to sink its teeth into his leg. 

He grabs it by the scruff of its neck and yanks its snapping teeth away from him. "NO."

...Whimper. 

...All right on second thought it should not have tried to bite Father. 

It slumps. 

Where is Mother. 

…Gods. 

For a fleeting moment, Ophel considers excusing himself.

He steps forward, carefully. “If we are to ensure that this creature grows to defy its nature, shouting at it all the time will not develop its fondness for mortalkind. It needs its mother.”

It hurts to say this. “Perhaps you should apply for a special license. To marry Miss Bridgerton sooner, that she may not be kept from the dragon.”

"Neither will spoiling it." He's surprised at the sudden flare of protectiveness he feels for the creature - how dare the elf, didn't he fucking learn, if the dragon goes the way his brother did it will be a disaster and Voltur won't have the luxury of running away from his problems - but he forces it down. "...But perhaps you are not wrong. Is there any pretext under which Eloise might be brought here?"

His eyes narrow, and his guards go up again.

He knew he shouldn’t have told the bastard anything. It was stupid of him to open up to a human, and such a vulgar one at that.

“Now? So late at night, after a ball? No. Tomorrow, perhaps, and you can reassure her family that I will be there to act as chaperone.”

He grunts. 

"I suppose I will remain with him tonight, then. Goodnight, Lord Ophel."

May it eat you in your sleep.

Ophel does not say a word. He turns around with a sweep of the cloak, and makes his gloomy exit.

Flowers for the daughter. Port for the father.

In the light of the morning sun, the young Lord Deneith steels himself and knocks on the door of Kreel Manor.

His servants, of course, will not look a nobleman in the eye, ill-bred foreigner or not. They do their very best to look invisible. 

Ambrose will be silently shown up and introduced in a quiet voice. 

Ambrose might be surprised to see that this part of the house is richly decorated, lit with flaming braziers and exquisitly expensive. Dark cold draughty narrow corridors are for everyone else. 

We will see how fast the boy learns. 

He does not deign to turn to look at Ambrose yet, but he does silently close his book and place it neatly to the side. 

She sits at enough distance from Father to show respect, not so much as to suggest fear. She is doing needlework. 

She hates needlework. She's seen too much of what else you can do with needles. 

She does turn to look at Ambrose, and her face is tight and blank - the best she can do to show him he is in danger be careful.

His turn to speak, now. Don't make a mess. 

Galora was right. This is not the atmosphere of a home, or the poise of a loving father.

He bows low, though he finds the act detestable. “Lord Kreel. It is an honour to be welcomed into your household. I am Ambrose, Court Wizard to Volturgard.” Best not mention his family. He straightens to his full height. “With your blessing, as I understand it from my liege lord, I have come to call on your daughter.”

"So you have," he says blandly. 

The difficulty is that his daughter has started making her own moves, at all. 

She did nothing but defend the family name, did nothing but defend him, as is right and proper. All signs suggest that she does remember her place and served him as best she could. Not well enough, obviously, but without a trace of treachery. She has been made to regret her inadequacies, but not truly punished as she would have been otherwise. 

But he did not expect it, from her. Something he thought he knew was wrong. 

This is not reassuring, however advantageous it might seem. 

It was a risk, making that move to capture Voltur and turn him on the Deneiths. A piece of... probably Danbury's, he's still annoyingly uncertain... is not so easily taken. 

And thanks to Her Majesty, he can't even easily reposition and use access to his daughter as leverage. 

His major options, then, are to try to bring Ambrose under his control, or else tighten his grip on Galora to control him indirectly, or give ground now and take his vengeance in time. 

That will depend on the character of this jumped-up magician. 

"Daughter. You have a visitor."

Ambrose tears his eyes away from the monster and lets them rest on Galora. He smiles gently.

“Miss Kreel. I brought you flowers. Although I did not know which kind you like, so I ask you now: which colour do you favour?”

Hmm. Weak. Good. 

He'll try some magic, of course, maybe a foolish attempt to assert power. 

Now his daughter will-

Something inside her feels under strain, creaking, feathering towards the final break-

"Red. Like blood."

“Of course.” He murmurs a few words; his eyes glow blue, and the roses of pure-white slowly transform into the deepest crimson, like blood staining snow.

Ambrose steps closer and holds them out to Galora, bowing his head. He speaks to her softly. “I hope these please you.”

She takes them, smells them-

Ambrose Father will kill you easy as breathing if he can and if it helps him-

Ambrose Father is a madman by the gods get me out of here tell the Duke tell the Queen tell everyone-

Ambrose just kill him use your magic do it now-

Ambrose it was always too late for me just run-

She crushes her rebellious thoughts beneath her heel and performs a perfect aristocratic nod, a perfect cold smile, something in her bends ever further towards breaking and she says neutrally "Thank you, Lord Deneith." The advantage of this position is that Father can't see her eyes, so she widens them and glances in Father's direction and hopes like hell the wizard isn't stupid.

Time to squeeze. 

He stands, turns, smiles. 

"Lord Ambrose, in fact, I believe. The Court Wizard's title derives from his own personal position, and markedly not from his family." He steps towards Ambrose, smiling that thin smile. 

“Indeed, sir.” He turns to meet the man’s eye. “I am the second son of my father; by birth, I bear no rightful title or estate. My land has been granted by my own hand and the generosity of my patron.”

He retrieves the bottle he brought. The finest he could find, the crystal bottle crafted by elven hands.

“A small gift from one of the vineyards under my name, my lord. I hope you are partial to port wine.” He presents it.