The eve's dissolution did not dwindle from her grasp as some desperately-clutched palmful of sand in the manner it did for the petite little witch now flittering about within her kitchen. No, Rowena was not, had never been, the manner of individual to allow the hours to slip from her so freely... and when the dinner service had finally met its end she sat poised behind the domineering barrier of her desk. Ready. Waiting. The sleek telephone lay back snuggly into its cradle following the blonde matron's brief yet nonetheless poignant conversation with Henry regarding the evening's service and the myriad goings on of the kitchen and its various cogs. The evidence of which, however, does not cast even the minutest rivet or knowing simper upon the canvas of her chiseled facade. Rowena's features are customarily austere, rigid in a way that is naught but beautifully tenebrific, as the brunette flitters into the room only to present the employer whose approval she quests for with documentation of her presumed success and, further, Rowena's implied failure in the form of an unofficial citation for the marginally less than perfect state of the kitchen resulting from the dastardly Sous. The daunting sage of the blonde woman's eyes stray nary an inch from the presumptuous young girl as the tips of a few pristinely-manicured digits drag a pair of documents from beneath the paperweight upon her desk. The very same documents this outsider would dare to assume she does not possess; as if she, the queen of this particularly prestigious castle, would lack access to files that could so easily be obtained by a potential member of her staff.

Rowena simply rises, drawing herself upwards to the full extent of her not-unimpressive height, the scrutiny of her glances never once parting from those of the younger sorceress. It is a pregnant silence that swells in the sallacious neutrality of the void which separates them, a handful of moments that collapse, one after another, until the duo of women is joined by the awkwardly fidgeting Sous-turned-dishwasher. If the weight of the stare she had set upon their lithe guest had been judged harsh, there could be no rightful adjective for the heft of the glare Rowena then proffers to the plump man before her aside from absolutely and unequivocally brutal. "Get out." The syllables themselves are curt, an oddly intriguing feminine growl from within the gullet of their blonde host. And yet even then, it would seem, he dares to defy her command. "Rowena, please, I didn't-," he begins before the glacial woman turns to her brunette counterpart, the barest shard of a devilish simper only just blooming upon the painted brims of her lips. "Show him," she commands in a clipped lilt, neither eyes nor hands bothering to gesture to the papers she had presented so proudly moments earlier. Rowena allows but a moment for the portly gentleman to reflect upon the wrong-doings he had perpetrated whilst within her kitchen before bringing herself to tower before him in a manner of but a few effortless strides. The papers are swiftly wrenched from his sweating hands and crumpled into her own impressively taut grip, no further words seeping from her lips as none are required. The command now scorches from the pale emerald of her eyes, radiates from the practiced rigidity of her frame.

To his merit, the disgraced Sous flees from the confines of his former employer's office with surprising haste, leaving only the two women once again in the solitude of one another's company. "You will work with Henry to improve your dishes, and I have tasked him with spear-heading the menu's renovation." The words are deceptively flat, albeit blessedly bereft the venom of moments prior, until her eyes meet the young woman's once again... and a darkly knowing smile pulls upwards upon her lips. "Welcome to The Witchery."