"It looks uncomfortable." I eat some more of my croissant. I suppose they aren't bad after all.
"That's because you refuse to try a different style of stays," she responds. "If you wore this with the ones you prefer, then it probably would be uncomfortable."
"It took years to find a style I like that doesn't result in me wanting to burn dresses, I'm not going to cause more problems for the seamstresses by starting to experiment again."
"Fair enough. But Mama is going to expect you to wear at least one dress that's seen as in style for them."
"No doubt she'll expect me to try and speak Gaullessian too." I let out a sigh. "I'm just going to make a fool out of myself. My Gaullessian is weak."
"That's because you refuse to come to language lessons."
"I don't refuse," I counter. "I'm just not as advanced as you are. Languages are hard."
"I thought you'd like languages. They follow patterns."
"And those patterns make no sense. It should be more logical than it is," I protest. "And it's not as if I don't try. I turn up to my lessons every week, and work with the tutors. It just doesn't come to me the way that it comes to you. Or to Artie." Our brother is truly the one with the gift for languages, which is why he's the one who helps Father with trade deals and speaking to ambassadors.
"That's probably why Father gave you feasts to organise, rather than working directly with the ambassadors."
"It is better that way," I respond. "Though I'm surprised that you're not the one who does that, you're so good at remembering who everyone is and what's going on between them." I finish my croissant and pour myself some tea, admiring the smooth amber liquid as it fills the dainty cup.
"I didn't realise you noticed."
"Why do you think I sit you next to me at every banquet?" I ask.
"I thought you did it so that no one would notice that you're picky with your food."
"That too." I pick up my teacup and take a sip, enjoying the hot tea.
"Well, I'm glad I can help," she responds. "The croissants are good, by the way."
"They could be better."
"You'd say that no matter if they were perfect or not."
"There's always room for improvement," I say.
"And would you tell your baker that? Or would you tell him that he makes the best croissants you've ever had?" She gives me a look that I think is supposed to say something, but I ignore it.
"Nate isn't my baker."
"Yet," she responds.
"And I would tell him the truth. If he'd made these croissants, then I'd tell him that there isn't enough salt in his dough, and they're slightly overbaked." And he'd be grateful for it. That's one of the best things about Nate. He's always wanting to get better.
"I wouldn't have thought either of those things," Veronica muses.
"That's because you don't know anything about baking," I point out.
"That's fair. Well, as someone who doesn't need to know anything about food in order to enjoy it, I'm telling you that they taste good."
"Thank you."
"Ah, so you do know how to take a compliment."
"Why wouldn't I know how to take a compliment?" I ask.
"Never mind," she responds, going back to the last of her croissant.
