They ate in near silence after that, with only the occasional comment on the food, and gradually the silence stopped being so awkward and became something else.
Lor ate steadily.
He was a boy who was hungry and spent his strength freely, and after the third bite of lamb he gave up on manners.
He tore the bread with his hands.
He wiped the plate with a crust. He had the second slice of pheasant before he realised he had not breathed between bites.
The food was rich and warm. The wine sauce clung to the meat. He was full in a way he had not been in days.
Nellie ate with small, neat motions.
A spoonful, a sip of tea, a bite of tart cut with the side of her fork.
Her back stayed straight. She never once let the spoon touch the rim of the bowl.
But her eyes kept coming back to Lor across the table, and each time they did, the corner of her mouth lifted. She had stopped trying to hide it.
Under the table, her thighs were still pressed together.
