At some point, Delyth’s face had worked itself into a mask of disapproving disbelief, but listening to Taraias ramble about his plight caused it to fall into her usual indifference. “You may have as much water as you please, Sir Daemyn, though I suggest you ask a server rather than poor Lord Hexte.” Half of her attention returned to skirts that did not need the smoothing at all. “The cure for hangovers usually begins before one passes out,” said the voice of experience. Hardly proper given that she was Lady Regent, but she was also in her seventies and if she had a sovereign for every time a member of court had an intelligent thought in their head she would likely only have enough to purchase an overworked horse. Hardly the kind of people to whose opinions one paid heed, however personal they may become.
Delyth’s eyebrow arched at his amusement. “Ought I have said it louder or would you rather have him summoned here?” Her pause was for nothing if not dramatic effect. “I can say it again,” she assured. Not that she thought he would find it particularly comforting, although she hoped he had been referring to Sir Amadeo and not the other one. That boy needed to be smacked up the back of his head with a ladle, and she would gladly offer to do it. “Indeed…” Although for Delyth’s part she would be hoping nothing until she knew what she outcome of the lad having a comparable reputation would be. It was, after all, entirely possible that he would be known for skinning children, for instance. Was she to hope for that? No, she thought not. With a wry chuckle, her gaze raised again, still watching him over rimmed glass. “I know precisely what your lady sister was drinking last I saw her.” He had not been with her, either. It would interest her to know if Janna was still alive. “Young man, you would drink lamp oil and tell me it’s honeyed mead.” On that note, she smiled her thanks to a real server as a fresh glass of wine finally found its way to her. The tardiness was unforgivable, really, but her focus was elsewhere.