Edward sniffed. “That could be anybody’s vomit. I certainly am not willing to accept ownership just now.”
“Well I certainly didn’t do it. And the rat doesn’t look like he’s the puking type. And you, I’ll wager, don’t remember last night at all.” The three statements rolled easily off of Eloise’s tongue with the practiced air of someone who has had this sort of conversation on a disturbingly regular basis.
It took some time for Edward to wrap his head around the multiple concepts that had just been presented to him. “Ah, well. Even assuming it is my vomit, that doesn’t mean I cried for my mother.”
“I’ll admit,” Eloise said, scratching at her neck thoughtfully (she had a terrible rash as a result of a straw allergy, something that she’d been learning to live with since her imprisonment), “that I could have thrown the bit in about crying for your mother just for extra flavor.”
“I do not appreciate needless embellishments to an already embarrassing tale.” Edward stared down his nose haughtily.