Horror. That was the only word to describe the feelings Wolfgang was enduring: pure, unadulterated horror. Two parts of him were at war with one another. On one hand, the part of him that had been raised a polite, well-mannered schoolboy conflicted with the other part, the anti-social, quiet, aloof gentleman. Desperately, he wanted to escape. Desperately, he needed to appease Franchesca's aunt when she pleaded him to stay until—at least—dessert. His stomach hit the floor with such force, he was surprised it didn't make an audible 'thud.'
"I can't say no to such kindness," he muttered out between gritted teeth, straight and white, trying to make any sort of smile, though it looked more like a snarl than anything. He did what he could to soften to look in his eye, but all that was there was panic. It was as if he'd just been thrown into a room filled with vipers, and there was no exit. His heart, too, pounded in his chest and his palms went slick. With students, he was at least the professors… the eldest, the one to be respected. At the Inn, he was at the whims and discretions of someone's aunt. The lack of control was maddening.
He sat, as stiff as a corpse at the starting stages of rigor mortis, though he didn't take any appetizers. Any hunger he felt was quickly quelled with panic.
A sharp pain to his shin caused him to snap his eyes to Franchesca, narrowing his gaze steadily in a mildly threatening manner. What was she, his sister? His elder sister used to wail on him at the dinner table all the time when their mother wasn't looking, and if Franchesca believed Wolfgang was going to let that slide, she hadn't learned a damn thing about him. He wasn't often vindictive. After she made her commentary about his artistic decline, he didn't take any opportunity to snap back at her, or try and make her feel bad about her own work, no.
This, however, was an opportunity he couldn't pass up, and Isabelle provided the perfect excuse for him to get back at Franchesca—just a little bit.
"A question about Franchesca? Well, if you insist," Wolfgang said, clearing his throat. "Do you have any earliest drawings, back from when she was a child? I find it fascinating how artists often evolve from childhood work."
He smiled when he asked his question, sliding his chin elegantly against the back of his hand as he glanced back across the table to Franchesca with the honest, broadest smirk he'd smiled since she started on campus. It wasn't a deep, malicious strike, but if Franchesca was anything like himself—and he believed, in this regard, she was—sharing early works was an embarrassing endeavor.