The sun had barely passed its zenith when the bell above The Mcronald's door rang for the twenty-third time that morning. The line, which had already begun coiling halfway down the cobbled street, now glimmered with silk robes and velvet cloaks—the unmistakable mark of upper-class wealth.
Lyra peeked out the window and raised an eyebrow. "Did a noble carriage overturn somewhere? What's with all the glitz?"
Inigo didn't even look up from the fryer. "I've been expecting this."
"You have?"
"Oh yeah," he said as he sprinkled a dash of imported pepper over the patties. "You introduce something popular, and eventually, the nobles come sniffing around. Give it ten minutes, we'll have our first entitled brat acting like they own the building."
