Winnie beamed. Daphne had poured a glass of pumpkin juice for herrrrr. And they were going to sit and have distinguished and mature conversation, daintily sipping their juice. All that was missing was a roaring fire and biscuits. And lace doilies.

But she had definitely thought too soon. While Willie was capable of manners and audible conversation that wasn't yelling, he was much more apt to yell...and squeeze someone's shoulder...and threaten the lives of innocents...she jumped in her seat when he yelled at her, and cringed when he squeezed her shoulder again. He might dislocate it. She sat stock still in her seat, face frozen in terror. She breathed a sigh of relief when he relinquished her deltoid, and she rubbed it tenderly. Winnie bruised easily.

"Willie," she croaked. "You probably shouldn't bite Daphne. She has a butler, you know, a wonderful man named Davis, who mostly likely counts the mastery of several martial arts among his virtues. He could hurt you. And Garret probably would not be happy to find that you had bitten someone. Again."