"This morning," Clara said quickly.
"Toast doesn't count as a meal."
"It was very substantial toast."
Gabriel snorted. "She lies terribly. Always has."
Edmund's eyebrows rose at the 'always has,' but he wisely didn't comment. Instead, he pulled out a chair. "Sit. Eat. Gabriel can survive without his criticism for a few minutes.”
"Can I though?" Gabriel mused. "Criticism is my primary form of communication. Without it, I might have to express actual emotions."
"The horror," Clara murmured through a mouthful of bread.
"See? She understands me."
"Nobody understands you," Edmund said cheerfully. "You're an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in an uncommonly bad attitude."
"You forgot wrapped in devastating good looks."
Edmund looked pointedly at Gabriel's scar. "Did I?"
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Clara set down her bread.
"Edmund," she said quietly. "That was unkind."
Both men stared at her. Edmund had the grace to look ashamed. Gabriel looked... stunned.
"I apologize," Edmund said after a moment. "That was beneath me."
"Yes, it was," Gabriel agreed, but he was still looking at Clara with that complicated expression.
An awkward silence fell. Clara resumed eating, determined to ignore the tension. The food was exceptional, and she had no intention of allowing mere male consequence to spoil her evening.
"So," Edmund said finally, clearly desperate to change the subject. "The gardens."
Gabriel groaned. "Not you too."
"Margaret says Miss Whitfield asked for gardening tools."
"Miss Whitfield labours under the fantastical notion of restoring the departed to life.”
"The gardens aren't withered and dried up," Clara protested. "They're simply dormant."
"They're a wasteland."
"They're neglected. There's a difference."
"You and your differences," Gabriel muttered.
Edmund looked between them with increasing interest. "You two do this often?"
"Do what?" Clara asked.
"Argue like you've been wedded for twenty years."
"We don't…" Clara began.
"We're not…" Gabriel said simultaneously.
