When Roselyn cut into hers, the slice parted with a soft sigh, releasing a thin wisp of steam that smelled of barbecue and burn flowers.
Nearby sat bowls of what resembled mashed potatoes, creamy white mounds that quivered every few seconds as if stirred by an invisible spoon.
Small tendrils of green vine extended from the base, curling lazily over the rim before retracting again.
A platter held something like roasted vegetables—bulbous purple shapes that rolled slightly when the table leaf flexed, skins splitting open to reveal soft, glowing insides that steamed faintly.
I'm hungry, and everyone else seem to be eating it, so I'm eating it too.
The hunger gnawed low in my stomach, sharp and familiar, pulling my hand toward the nearest plate without much thought.
Roselyn tore off a piece of her pink steak with her teeth, chewing slowly, eyes half-closed in satisfaction.
