Page 385

His head turns. Slowly. "What."

"Food."

"I know what food is."

"Good." I lean my head against the wall. "Favorite."

"Why."

"Because I've known you for months and I know nothing about you that isn't classified, dangerous or irritating."

Rhyven considers. "Seems sufficient."

"It isn't."

"Why not."

"Because normal people know things about each other."

"We aren't normal people."

"Unfortunately true." He looks forward again. I wait. Nothing. "Rhyven."

"What."

"Food."

A pause. Then— "Braised venison."

I blink. "That's disappointingly normal."

"You asked."

"Prepared how?"

His eyes narrow. "Why does that matter."

"Details."

He exhales. "Juniper."

"Wine?"

"Yes."

"Root vegetables?"

"Sometimes."

"Who made it?" Silence. Slightly different. I notice.

"My mother." There. Quiet. No elaboration. I don't push. Important.

I simply nod. "Was she good at cooking?"

His mouth moves slightly. "No."

I look at him. He almost smiles. "Then why is it your favorite?"