The maid's expression shifted very slightly. Something in it warmed by a degree, the subtle, private warmth of someone watching a thing they were hoping for actually happen.
"Yes, ma'am," she said. "So is the boss. We don't cook spicy food in this house, and we never use peanuts."
She left it there. Gently. Just left it there like something set on a table for someone to pick up when they were ready.
Ruby looked at her for just a moment. Then she nodded and sat down. The food was good.
More than good, it was familiar, which was different and considerably more significant. Familiar in the way that hit somewhere below appetite, in the place where comfort lives.
She worked through it with the quiet, unselfconscious focus of someone whose body had been through more than enough today and was now engaged in the serious business of recovery.
And then she reached the crab.
