"I made something simple to start the evening and stimulate your appetite," Georg said. "I hope that no one minds. The first course is meant to be enjoyed raw…"
Raw.
Micheline folded her hands in her lap and kept her expression perfectly pleasant, the way she'd been taught to at a hundred formal dinners.
She'd seen the Master of Kitchens' sharp teeth when he laughed. She'd also seen the size of his hands, each one broad enough to palm a serving platter, and the dark, deadly claws that tipped every finger.
And he had just told them, with obvious pride in his voice, that dinner would begin with raw meat.
In the half-heartbeat before the silver dome lifted, her imagination filled in the rest as she tried to prepare herself so she wouldn't make an unsightly display of disgust or shock. Would it be a still-bleeding haunch of something freshly slaughtered? Had the meat been torn by those frightening claws rather than sliced by a knife?
