Porphyria grinned at his resolution – she was certain, now that she knew of poor beleaguered Atticus Foxwood and his party stalker, she would derive great amusement from looking out for the so-called hag at future events.

And the prospect of her throwing a very public fit made Porphyria laugh deeply. “Oh, I hope she does,” she agreed emphatically, still assessing the other guests to see if any young lady looked especially livid in this direction. “This party could use a scandalous scene or two to liven it up.”

No, she was only teasing – but the woman did sound entirely unhinged, so she had to feel sorry for Mr. Foxwood. “Here,” she said more soothingly, exchanging his champagne glass for a cocktail glass off a passing tray that she suspected would have more of an effect than champagne; she whisked off one for herself, too, because she was stuck enduring a society party. “Clearly you deserve something a little stronger for all your suffering. Unless you’re worried she’s already gotten to these too, and slipped in a love potion for you?” Phyri tried valiantly not to cackle this time, though she really should stop poking fun, not when it sounded very much like something in a scheming debutante’s wheelhouse. “Shall I test it for you first?”

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