Lenora flushed. “She likes books, that’s all.”
Dorian chuckled softly. “Parents always say that when they want to sound modest.”
Maris stood still and watched him.
He took that as an invitation to continue.
“I’m told she studies languages,” he said. “Quite an impressive hobby for a child whose mother spends her evenings mopping floors.”
Lenora’s face changed at once. “Sir, please.”
But Dorian had already decided where the moment was going. He held up the manuscript like a performance prop and let his voice sharpen just enough to make the room feel smaller.
“The finest translators I could find have struggled with this,” he said. “Professors, researchers, experts. But perhaps your daughter can do what they could not. Wouldn’t that be something?”
He expected embarrassment. He expected the girl to look at the floor, to shrink behind her mother, to mumble something uncertain.
Instead, Maris stepped forward one quiet pace.
