Rowena can feel him at her side, his forced and anticipatory rigidity rolling from him in noxious waves to break upon her solid and wholly unmoving frame. She can smell the physical manifestation of his inner turmoil as sweat beads from every greasy pore to trace sporadic rivulets down his brow. Only a fool would dare believe that it was, merely, the heat of the kitchen that had stricken him so harshly. She does not see him, for her eyes are solely for the young woman before them, and yet she needs not for she knows with ethereal certainty that panic has taken him within its binding and merciless grasp. A grasp that was heralded, guided, by the strength of Rowena's own hand... and for the displeasure he had wrought upon her she would surely crush him with it. The true depth of his discomfort matters not at all, though, and she would have him bare witness to this display regardless of his feeble attempts to escape from it and from her.

Whatever modicum of surprise might have flittered across the forefront of the matron's mind, and it is doubtful whether any had presented itself at all, does not register in any portion of the towering blonde's face... does not plant its kiss into the malicious glimmer of her sage green eyes as her lithe guest moves to command the team of individuals who work busily at her side. In unison they give pause, a pregnant silence punctuated by the soundtrack of the bustling kitchen about them passing over each in turn, before they look to Rowena for affirmation of the validity of this new addition and the deviation in status that it represents. The smallest of nods is all that is required from her before they set in to fulfill the whims of the damsel that has, at least momentarily, been afforded some charge. And so, arms crossed against her chest and nary the fluttering of a lash to denote distraction, Rowena observes the young woman who had been deposited so suddenly into her office mere moments ago.

A thousand considerations, each weighed expertly between proverbial hands, sift about her brain as she observes, green eyes perusing not just the woman before her, but the line of individuals at her side, the movements of the young woman's hands, and the manner in which she chooses from the immeasurably luxuriant stock of ingredients to which she is now temporarily privy. She does not care for credentials, does not forfeit even the barest whim of a passing thought to the name of whatever prestigious culinary institution the young girl may or may not have studied at our aspired to attend, for truly such things were for the superficial and those softened in their resolve by the corrosive agent that was self-doubt. True skill, in the culinary arts or otherwise, could not be taught, the talent Rowena sought not something that could have been sculpted by any curriculum, no matter how rigorously structured. What she cared for, what she demanded of those in her employ, were results. Perfection in every single thing that they did to further the notoriety of The Witchery and, by extension, themselves.

A single perfectly-manicured brow rises as the young woman steps aside to present the veritable fruits of her toils, the probing heft of Rowena's glances falling in a nearly audible thud to the plates that lay before her. Neither sight nor smell goes unnoted by the weight of her consideration, though the stoicism of her features betrays only absolute and ironclad nothingness. "Henry," she calls curtly, awaiting the presumed arrival of the tall and darkly handsome Head Chef at her side before nodding surreptitiously to the plates of seemingly-immaculate fare. Wordlessly he acquiesces, having worked in the presence of Rowena for a tenure that had proven long enough for him to anticipate her whims, partaking of the proponents of each dish in turn. Rowena merely watches as the brown-eyed man retreats, casting the enigmatic darkness of his gaze towards his matron, a moment of silence engorged with whatever judgment he has made passing betwixt them. Only after a few lingering moments does she, herself, step forward in order to sample of the wares of this aspiring young chef.

In this as she certainly is in all things Rowena is hopelessly unreadable, her features shifting into neither disgust nor elation as she owes one last consideration to the gleaming plates of lavish cuisine before shifting her piercing gaze to Elenore. "You will stay for the dinner service under Henry's supervision and direction. If your creations do well I might allow you to stay in my kitchen," she purrs, the slightest grin tugging knowingly at the brims of her impeccably plump lips. One last obligatory glance skates across those of the slender young woman before Rowena turns to the still-quivering Sous at her back, the portly fellow flinching grotesquely as she presses the fork she holds into his hand. "You will help the dishwashers. Now get out of my sight," she hisses, eyes scorching into his retreating frame before she, too, turns to leave... her departure heralded by naught but the timely clicking of heels.