The menus were small, printed on thick cream paper with dark green lettering, and somehow far more elegant than a list of coffee had any right to be.
Sylvia stared at hers with the focus of a woman who had been saved by stationery.
Across from her, Thomas opened his own menu.
It looked absurd in his hands.
Not because he handled it carelessly. He did not. Thomas Lancaster appeared to be the type of man who could pick up a porcelain cup during an assassination attempt and then put it back down without chipping the rim. But his hands were large, and the menu was delicate, and Sylvia had the deeply unfair thought that everything looked smaller near him.
Tables. Chairs. Menus.
Her sense of self-preservation.
She looked down quickly, hoping that Thomas didn't notice.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"That was not nothing."
"It was furniture-related."
His mouth twitched. "The chair is fine."
"The chair is enduring you with patriotic loyalty."
"I will thank it later."
