The moment rapidly approaches. You're gonna show these alabaster sons of bitches how a cold war is done. You can't wait to read it in their papers. "The Maid is dead. Our Life is pathetic, blah blah blah." Or somesuch monotone drivel overheard during one of their pointless, weepy cadaver parades. There'll be no mistaking it this time. No servant will discover the body and inform the queen that Prospit's remaining hero passed in her sleep, peacefully and mysteriously. When the clock strikes twelve, no one in this wretched kingdom will have any doubt who's calling the shots here.
You're gonna bring this whole goddamn ball down.