For a time, conversation lapsed between Owain and Jocelynn while the former devoured his meal and the latter picked at hers while she struggled to overcome the feeling that anything she did or tried to do would only be futile.
This, she thought, must be what the fish feels like when it's placed on the chopping block. Gasping, its gills desperate for water, unable to breathe, and its struggles reduced to helpless flailing in the final moments before the end.
Did the fish yearn for the knife to fall? She didn't know, but she imagined that, to the struggling, gasping fish, the sharp blade of the butcher might be a mercy.
"Is the food not to your liking?" Owain asked, frowning when he realized that she'd only take a few bites of the fish and had yet to touch the 'Ship's Bell Pudding' that had provoked such a strong response from her servants. "Perhaps the cook isn't so talented after all," he began, only for Jocelynn to quickly interrupt him.
