Faolan grabs his drink and follows the other man out into his living room, more cradling it in his hands than really drinking it just yet. "Norrell's stirring things up," Faolan repeats, using the other man's words to emphasize his point, "and she's letting him do it. She's letting every prejudiced word of his influence the Council's decision, and every decision they make, it all trickles down to us."

Faolan's fingers tighten on the glass in his hand. "We're doing his dirty work, Lancelot. We're little more than Norrell's thugs, and she's letting it happen. She's the President," he says, his words sharp. The uncomfortable feeling he's been feeling all week clawing its way out through his chest, the words tumbling out unbidden. "She's the damn President. She could ignore him if she wanted to. But she made a conscious decision to follow through on his wishes. Maybe she wants this as much as she does. Maybe she was just waiting for the excuse."