"Speak up, what, cat got your tongue?"
Fujiwara Homare reached out to grab Fushimi Roku's collar, trying to force him to bow, but failed to move him. It resulted in Fujiwara Homare hanging awkwardly on his chest like a sloth.
The latter was furious and embarrassed, planning to kick the back of Fushimi Roku's knee, forcing him to kneel, while accusing him of obstructing official duties and throwing him into the police station for a good ten days of discipline.
Before he could act, he heard a cold and weary female voice from the other end of the corridor: "He is my invited guest."
Fujiwara Homare turned back, and the others lifted their heads as the Western-style clock in the hall chimed. The eaves cast diamond-shaped patches of light, and they saw the princess dressed in mourning clothes, her complexion even paler than the newly pasted Tang paper on the paper door.
