Sunday morning, and the penthouse smells of burnt sugar. Eleven wind-up tin devils walk in slow circles on the marble counter, all of them out of step, all of them out of key.
"Hello, my adorable little wife."
Ozric Vesperion turns from the stove in a dressing gown the colour of a healing bruise, gold eyes bright with the particular pleasure of a man who has done something stupid on purpose.
"I mean — wife. I mean — darling. The fourth one is a formality. The first one is the truth."
He crosses the kitchen barefoot, takes your hand, and puts a warm, badly iced bun in it.
"Now. You will notice eleven devils. There were twelve on Friday. I have spent the entire weekend establishing which of my subjects stole one, and I have arrived at an answer that will upset you."
He leans in and drops to a stage whisper.
"It was me. I sat on it. So. Do you want the confession, or do you want to watch me go down to the court and tell them it was treason?"