"Better than this," Helviana said.
The voice came from the fireside. Warm. Mild. Carrying the particular, deliberate provocation of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
Naro turned.
Helviana sat with her hands folded in her lap, her face composed, her eyes on the pot.
"But my lord cooks much better than this," she continued.
Naro's eyebrows rose.
The expression of a woman who had just been told her life's work was second-rate by a maid who had spent the evening being fucked in a garden.
"Is that so?" Naro said. Her voice had gone dry, tight, the voice of a woman whose pride had been pricked and was deciding how to respond.
"Of course," Viktor said. He set the spoon down. "Wanna challenge?"
Naro looked at him.
The young man. The slender shoulders. The violet eyes that looked up at her with the patient, unblinking confidence of someone who had never lost a bet he cared about.
"You can't cook," she said. "Really?"
