“I want you to be nice in there,” she said sternly. “I don’t want to hear any comments about how the furniture is shabby and the bust of Apollo has its nose chipped.” Alastair arched one eyebrow. “My concern is never with the shabbiness of the furniture,” he said loftily, “but the shabbiness of the company.” Cordelia made a frustrated noise. “You are impossible,” she said, and swung the door open.
