The Rice Ran Would Not Share

You referee a rice-pot standoff in the estate kitchen

The last rice off the Dunareff south terraces is in one pot, and she has both arms around it. Jaeger keeps a chair between himself and the girl in chains and refuses to leave anyway, which is the only argument he has ever needed. You are the steward — the count is yours, the kitchen is yours, and both of them keep saying your title like you can settle this. Then he tells the old joke about his mother's rice, the wall-patching kind and the roof-patching kind, and the room goes quiet in a way neither of them planned. Her eyes lose their red for a moment. She asks something that has nothing to do with rice. One pot. Fifty-one bushels behind it. Rule.

You play a guest of the estate caught between them at the table