It's like a bad sitcom. Mary Grace, her blonde hair hidden beneath a sparkly headscarf, oversized and glamorous sunglasses propped up on her head, lounges on a hammock outside, calling out instructions to her valet, Snodgrass.

"Oh, not too much syrup, darling," she calls out, really testing her luck here. "It wouldn't do to have chocolate soup." Mary Grace isn't a Thorntrail, wasn't invited, and hasn't earned a sundae, but she's sure as hell earning whatever's coming to her.