The maitre'd looked stonily at her, though it was quite possible for Brooke to read that he was insulted. Stephanie for her part took the preoffered Armagnac, pounded it like a sorority girl and looked directly at the maitre'd. He finally muttered condescendingly that he would send the dishes back to the kitchen.

"The bill." It sounded archly dismissive, coldly annoyed in a manner that betrayed more than a little bit of her roots as a Shaw. "We'll pick up something nice for dessert in the District. There's plenty of lovely cafes there."

No, she didn't feel like becoming goddamned Caligula because a restauranteur felt it would be some sort of culinary experience. And if they didn't eat there ever again, well, it would become their loss.

And her and Brooke were part of the rising elite of the one-day inheritors of the Earth. They were not going to be talked down to by some petty server.