How (Not To) Etiquette

"You've done it wrong!" she scolds. "You need to comment on the food and curtsey before sitting. Besides, you are yet to ask about my day, how impudent of you to do so!"

Myra clears her throat, "You're right, I've been rude. How are you today, Viscountess Belrose? I hope the day is treating you well. I've heard of the platter you prepared specially for me, you shouldn't have put so much thought to me," she churns sickening words, overly-sweet for them to make sense with her personality.

The Viscountess smiles satisfactorily at this, curtseying as she helps herself into the chair. However, when Myra tries to do the same, her smile falls into a critical frown.

"You've done it wrong again! You aren't paying attention to your posture! Additionally, it's extremely rude for the chair to clatter when you're pulling it out," she corrects, pointing her accusatory hand towards Myra.

"But I—" Myra notices the viscountess' challenging expression, yet continues to argue. "—it barely made a sound. You may excuse this one mistake, teacher."

"If I excuse you, you'll make the same errors in front of a hundred other nobles and the commoners who will have their eyes on you. Correcting yourself is more important than talking back to your mentors," Viscountess Belrose glares, folding her arms akimbo until Myra stops refusing to repeat her actions with proper etiquette.

Myra flicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth in annoyance, forcing herself to stand up. Pulling her lips into a forced, insincere grin, she curtsies and seats herself once again. The Viscountess wears a look of approval, unfolding her arms to place on her lap.

"Good, now tell me the names of each utensil," Viscountess Belrose smiles cunningly and now Myra starts to think that she's nitpicking errors to embarrass her. She clenches her dress under the table where Belrose won't see, stiffly lowering her gaze to the utensils.

Her mind starts to blur until her thoughts simply leave her entirely, leaving her confused as to how she's going to successfully label all sixteen of these godforsaken pieces of silverware.

"Go on, we haven't all day," the viscountess taunts and Myra looks up, deliberately to glare. Before her 'bold' expressions are criticised, she decides to start with the most obvious ones, laid out immediately beside her plate.

"Soup spoon," Myra points at a utensil with a round, slightly deeper top. "Dessert spoon, table spoon," she continues, pointing towards two utensils which look almost identical, only that one of them is slightly smaller and less curved than the other.

She can't be sure that she's right, especially since she can't recall ever having to do etiquette classes. For the sake of maintaining her pride, however, she continues to label with confidence until Belrose argues.

"Table fork, dessert fork. Table knife, dessert knife," she points, lifting them in her hands very slightly to remind herself of the ones she's already identified.

When she looks up briefly to see where else to point out utensils on the table, she observes the viscountess' expression contrast into a distasteful one, trying to maintain her composure past her unhappiness. "Is something the matter, Viscountess? Cat got your tongue?" Myra bats her eyelashes, scoffing internally at Viscountess Belrose who panics in trying to force a congratulatory smile on that wrinkled face of hers.

"You haven't, ahem, identified all of them yet. What about this?" the viscountess clears her throat, lifting up a knife with a distinctly sharp edge.

Myra easily recognises this, and then she realises she could've gone about doing this on her own without the viscountess lifting the utensils all the way to eye-level for an answer.

"Steak knife," she answers at ease. Viscountess Belrose reaches forward across the table to a selection of cheese on a wooden board, kept with a couple bunches of grapes. She lifts a knife off a block of cheese, holding it up expectantly for an answer.

"Cheese knife."

Viscountess Belrose gulps but tries her hardest not to show it on her face, something which Myra draws amusement out of, seeing as though her face looks constipated with a myriad of emotions she can't express out of courtesy. She then proceeds to lift up two utensils, a spoon and a fork, from salad and expects it to be difficult.

"Salad fork, salad spoon," Myra comments expertly and then curves her lips at the sight of the viscountess straightening her back to prepare herself for a scolding.

"Wrong, you—"

"Ah, dear, you must've misunderstood me. I meant to say that it was a serving spoon, and that the salad spoon is next to the bowl, which is wrongly placed. Didn't you check the positions of the utensils? I'd have to say that this is irresponsible of whoever laid out the table," Myra corrects herself, having intended to make the mistake to snatch Belrose's valuable opportunity of berating her.

The viscountess stares pointedly at her hands and realises the mistake, promptly setting them down against a napkin.

"You're right. Ahem, I was the one who set up the utensils for the etiquette class. Perhaps one of the servants misunderstood my instructions. Peasants, after all."

"Of course, it's not like you would purposefully switch up the utensils to make me trip up. Either way, don't you think it's a relief that I've properly remembered all the silverware? I pride myself on manners," Myra smiles slyly, voice twisted with words coated in over-sweetened honey.

Through narrowed eyes, she watches the viscountess shift uncomfortably on her chair, pupils dilated in shock.

"Yes," she chokes out. "It's best that we start eating," the viscountess remarks, waving a butler over who has been standing at a distance away from the table for a short while.

Myra finds it amusing how Belrose can no longer manage the courage to look her in the eyes, or speak to her for that matter. Pridefully eating her food, a little less annoyed about having to force sugar down her throat, Myra counts her lesson as a successful mission.

'Good riddance, even some nobles can prove themselves to be scum of the earth. Disappointing.'

Only helping herself to a small portion of the food, Myra excuses herself without another word, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin. The viscountess snaps her head up in surprise at this, rudely clattering her silverware against the plate. She stands promptly, adjusting her over-voluptuous feather hat and over-ruffled, tacky dress.

"I still have to go through your posture and walking practice with you. You are not entirely ready for tomorrow's affair, I believe and—" she abruptly stops mid-sentence when Myra simply ushers a butler over.

"Name me the time," she requests sternly, clasping her hands in front of her while she stares pointedly at Belrose, unblinking. Even the viscountess gets chills from her unmoving stare, taking a step backwards, almost out of fear.

"Around four, my lady," he comments and Myra cocks her head just slightly to the side. The butler remains in a bowing position until he's excused, not daring to look up at his master, knowing her silence is a stern warning.

Myra's sure she doesn't know herself all that well either, far less than the butlers and maids might know from watching her at a distance over the years they've been at the manor. Drawing fear out of people, though, as sick as it is, is a skill she's going to appreciate having.

"Unfortunately, it's nearing evening and I've got another affair to prepare myself for. I'll have Margaret check my posture when I practice before bed. Feel free to drop by another time when I am able to weasel you into my schedule," Myra says condescendingly, humouring herself with the appalled expression which Belrose's expression falls into.

Knowing the older woman won't find proper words amongst the fogginess of being belittled, she simply turns around without expecting an offer and returns to the manor.

"Gosh, the look on her face was hilarious," she snickers to herself as she steps through the door of her home.