"That's correct," Grayson said.
Not good. Not excellent. Correct — the word of a man who had set a standard and measured the result against it and found them aligned. Coming from Grayson, it was the highest available rating, and she had learned to hear it that way.
She ate the last of her piece and set her fork down beside his.
He was looking at the remaining cake with the focused attention of a man who had solved a problem and was now, briefly, in the particular stillness that followed a solved problem — not satisfaction exactly, more like the recalibration of someone deciding what came next.
"Cerys gets a copy," Mailah said.
He looked at her.
"Of the final ratio," she said. "She gave you the recipe. You owe her the correction."
He considered this. "She'll know the ratio already."
"That's not the point."
