From his lonely corner, Carlisle shoots the fellow accosting him a seething look. He really should behave; he really should curb the ire bubbling in him, that frustration that Emily is gone and there's nothing he can do about it. However, he's had most of that cat-faced bottle at this point, and whatever was in it was strong enough that he goes against his better judgement in this case. His chair squawks as it slides across the floor, his feet loud as he stomps over there, fire in his eyes, bottle in his hand.

"What did you call me?" he demands. "What did you call me just now? Was that an insult? Because that certainly sounded like an insult."