"This is amazing," she managed around the mouthful, and dabbed her lips with the back of one wrist like a lady at court remembering she was also a person.
Sigrid took her portion with both hands like a sacrament and tore off a generous bite that crackled. "Lord Lyan, you're a wizard with food too," she pronounced, not bothering to dress praise in anything fancier than truth. Her ponytail swayed like a banner when she nodded again, this time as if to tell fate that it had done well delivering supper.
Lyan didn't preen, but his half-smile came and went like a secret handshake. He glanced across the fire at Arielle, and something in that look—pride borrowed and returned, a private joke only the two of them knew—sent a bright, foolish spark skittering along her nerves. It landed somewhere under her sternum and settled there, warm and unnecessary and wonderful.
