Chapter 58: The First Stroke
Lyria's POV
In the end, I stayed.
And definitely not because I wanted to.
I had tried, on no fewer than three separate occasions, to take the apple and leave with what remained of my dignity intact. The first attempt had been dismissed with a quiet but immovable I insist.
The second had been met with a pointed observation about the temperature of the soup and how it would be a shame to waste it.
The third had been interrupted by the cook himself, who had set a bowl before me with the resigned efficiency of a man who had learned not to involve himself in the conversations of his betters and simply wished for everyone to eat and go to bed.
And so I had eaten.
Begrudgingly.
The soup was warm and the bread was soft, and I hated that both of these things were true because it made it considerably more difficult to maintain the appropriate level of reluctance.
The whole while, Corvin watched me from across the kitchen.
