Qatrand sat cross-legged on the floor of her room. In the teenager's hands was a ball of dough wedged between her palms that she worked idly. The cook had suggested practicing the motions even when she couldn't bake, so she had purchased a barrel of flour and carried it back to the Yecine estate.
The doorman had given the heir a strange look as she approached with the container held up on her strong shoulder, but said nothing. It wasn't his place to tell anyone that the elders would disapprove.
As she wasted so much potential food on developing the right 'muscle memory' for the kneading sensations, her attention was quite fixed on the illusion of her wife. The illusory training tool still had more to teach, even with as many hours it had talked 'to' her.
