Olivia Atwater

He has the face of an angel, and the tongue of some foul... dockworker.”

Dora found it amusing that the countess apparently considered dockworkers to be an appropriate foil for angels. She was briefly distracted by the notion that hell might be full of legions and legions of dockworkers, rather than devils.

“I’m not certain what I did to insult you, my lord,” she said. “Have I offended you somehow, or am I simply conveniently-placed while you are otherwise upset?”

“...women who don’t understand personal boundaries always offend me,” Elias said finally. “Dim-witted people offend me even further.”

“Oh dear,” Dora said mildly. “That must be very difficult indeed.”

Already, the fair-haired man had begun to turn away from her—but he glanced back at that. “Pardon?” he asked. “What must be difficult, exactly?”

Dora smiled at him politely. “Being offended at yourself so very often,” she said. “That seems a sad way to live, my lord.”

Albert guffawed. “Oh,” he said. “She’s got you there, hasn’t she?”