She did not speak.
The hall grew quieter by degrees.
Kira had emerged from the kitchen to survey her domain, as she did every evening. She was seventy-three years old and had been feeding Northwatch since before Targesh earned his first scar. Her food was not merely adequate. Her food was an art form, created with skill and intention and no small amount of pride.
And the human guest was ignoring it, lost in whatever she was writing, the world around her reduced to background noise.
Kira's expression hardened.
In orcish culture, meals were not merely sustenance. They were communion. The sharing of food was the sharing of lifeitself, and to sit at a table in silence was an insult. A statement that the cook's effort was not worth acknowledging. That the company was not worth speaking to.
Verity Dunmore did not know this.
Targesh could see that clearly. There was no malice in her silence, no intention to offend. She was simply doing what came naturally to her, which was apparently to retreat into her own mind at every available opportunity and forget that other people existed.
It did not matter. The offense was given whether she meant it or not.
Kira set down the platter she was carrying with more force than necessary. The sound echoed through the hall, a sharp crack of wood against wood that made several heads turn.
The archivist looked up.
Targesh watched her blink, refocusing on the room around her as though emerging from underwater. Watched her gaze sweep across the silent tables, the watching faces, the cook standing rigid by the kitchen entrance.
Watched her understand.
"Oh," she said into the silence. "Oh, I've done something wrong."
It was not a question. She knew. She had figured it out in the space of three heartbeats, and now she was on her feet, journal abandoned, moving toward Kira.
"I apologize," she said, directly to the cook. "I was—I'm always—" She stopped. Took a breath. Started again. "I have a terrible habit of disappearing into my own head, and I did not realize that I was being—"
She stopped again. Her hands twisted together in front of her, those ink-stained fingers knotting and unknotting.
"I don't know your customs well enough yet," she said. "I should have asked. I should have paid attention instead ofassuming my own habits were acceptable. Please tell me how to make this right."
The hall was very quiet.
Kira looked at the human, her jaw set, arms folded across her chest. She was not easy to appease, Kira. She had standards, and she did not lower them for anyone, including warchiefs who occasionally forgot to compliment the bread.
"You have not eaten," Kira said finally. "You cannot apologize for insulting food you have not tasted."
"Then I'll eat." The archivist returned to her place at the table with more speed than dignity. She sat, pulled her plate toward her, and took a bite of the roasted meat.
She chewed.
Her eyes widened.
"This is—" She swallowed. "This is excellent. What is this? The spice profile is—" She took another bite, and then she was talking with her mouth half full. "There's something smoky, is that the cooking method or an added flavor? And the texture, the way it—"
Kira's rigid posture softened by degrees as the human peppered her with increasingly specific inquiries about her cooking techniques. Within two minutes, the cook was actually answering, her offense dissolving under the onslaught of what appeared to be genuine curiosity.
"Most humans find our food too strong," Kira said, suspicion still lingering in her voice.
"Most humans are bland," the archivist said, and then seemed to realize what she had said, and flushed, and corrected herself. "I mean, their food is bland. Our food is bland. I grew up on food that tasted like apology and I have spent my adult life trying to find things with actual flavor, so—"
She was still talking. Still asking questions. Still eating with evident enthusiasm, pausing between bites to makeobservations and request clarification and at one point actually pull out her journal to write something down before apparently remembering that the journal was what had caused the problem in the first place and shoving it hastily back into her pocket.
The tension in the hall eased. Conversations resumed at other tables. The moment passed.
