We link hands all the way down to the kitchen. And Yennara doesn't say a word until I've shoved down three triangular slices of the best burgers in the world—both worlds. It's mostly the hunger talking. Magic drains the feck outta ya! Her attitude as she watches me eat is one of pure understanding, like she can feel exactly the emptiness in my belly.
"So, Sir Lancelot told me what happened." Yennara maneuvers round the glistening wide top of the island that can seat a car. It holds a carton of fresh tomatoes, an icebox of a skinned turkey, two dusty sacs of flour, a pestle, and a note detailing another long list of groceries—like some Cook just left in a haste right before our entry. Besides the array worthy of a table at Farmers market, the island still has ample space empty.
Yennara turns this into a seating area, hopping up the evergreen marbletop. Her legs sway as she faces me. I stand—shoveling and swallowing—two inches to her left.
