May 17th, 1891 — Zabini Residence, London

The weekend had been a little exhausting, though it had come off well enough. Domitian was a champion pretender, but he was not often called upon to pretend to be pleasant in the center of so many people who were keenly waiting to see him slip and show his true feelings. At any rate, that hadn't happened in years — he was out of practice and not particularly enthused about having to break the skill out once again. The mental labor of it hadn't even ended when the final guests had left. Since they had been obliged to host, there were little signs of the reception lingering on after the newlyweds themselves departed; things out of place, messes to be cleaned, subtle reminders. It wasn't until that morning that he really felt the event was over, and he'd been looking forward to coming home and putting it as far from his mind as possible, even if only for a few hours. He could retire to his study and drink whatever good liquor was left in his cabinets and smoke a cigar and if he felt particularly inclined maybe go for a midnight prowl through the English countryside.

Or he could reopen the whole thing again. Apparently that was what he was going to do, because when he returned from work Camilla was sat in the parlor.

"Mrs. Prewett," he said in greeting, tone impassive. "I wasn't aware we were expecting you for dinner."

---