The insult had never been personal--sometimes making a splash in society is both figurative and literal. The Tailor had clearly recognized the Maven as what urchins would call a "soft touch": someone perhaps just a tad too forgiving and generous with their time or their wealth, who would never hold a grudge because of a sense of moral code. In other words, an easy target.

But there were... well, there were friends in her care. While the Tailor had no fond memories of the few years they had been wrangled into orphanages by Londoners who wanted to try to make an upright citizen of them through force, the lot under the Maven's roof had only passed on good information. Not directly to the Tailor--no, goodness. They were keeping their distance from most of the children. Trying to detach from that life as much as possible.

Which is why when the Maven brought up the scones, the Tailor's demeanor became rather... flustered? They cleared their throat, eyes darting to the desk and across the room, and willed their face to not warm further. "A-And that's--That's good. That's very good. I'm, that's..." They coughed, once. "I care you've been discreet as to where you learned it?"

Listen. If they got defined as a soft touch to the children that used to be, for lack of a better term, family? It was all over. They would never hear the end of it. B____y children.