Priscilla stood over Margaret with the severed braid dangling from one hand, silver scissors still held in the other, her expression carrying the particular satisfaction of someone who genuinely believed she'd corrected an unacceptable oversight rather than committed an act of casual cruelty.
"Staff who embarrass me do not belong here," she said, her voice cold and carrying easily across the foyer, pitched deliberately for the benefit of the guests now gathering along the grand staircase, drawn by the commotion. "Perhaps now you'll remember to present yourself properly."
Margaret remained kneeling, one hand still cradling her stomach protectively, the other pressed against the small cut on her forehead where the scissors had come too close. Tears streamed freely down her face, though she said nothing, some instinct warning her that any protest would only invite further cruelty from a woman who clearly relished the audience she'd gathered.
Priscilla clicked the scissors shut with theatrical finality, holding them up briefly to catch the chandelier light, her smile carrying an unmistakable malice as she surveyed the small crowd of guests watching from above, several exchanging uncomfortable glances but making no move to intervene.