The Weatherhills leave, and once they're out of sight Zandros' whole body goes slack. His next sigh isn't one of feigned, joyous relief, but of a real weight being lifted off his shoulders. He rolls his eyes as he turns to Isidor and begins to grin, only to see her expression, falter, and eventually decide to laugh.

"Oh, now, don't give me that sort of look, Isidor. You're chastising me. And for what? They left thinking highly of you, and they vowed not to disobey your will. I supported you, as I have said I shall do in all things. I dealt with them the way one must deal with the underclass: Tell them what they desire to hear whilst giving them nothing."

Eyeing her, his smile turns a touch more knowing, a bit more smug. "You're a shrewd businesswoman, but you've been blessed to deal only with the upper class and dutiful servants in your time, haven't you? You must understand, Isidor: Peasants lacking all hope and dignity turn like rabid dogs to bite the hands that feed. But give them a bit of perhaps undue self-worth and distract them with good entertainment and you'll have them for life."