Q sat at the kitchen table, her brow furrowed in a mixture of concentration and frustration as she stared down at the open book in front of her.
It wasn't a large book, not like some of the thick, intimidating tomes Juliette always seemed to be carrying around, but it might as well have been written in another language. The pages were covered in delicate diagrams of forks, spoons, knives, and things Q could barely recognize.
A seven-course meal. Seven. Who even needed that many courses? Back home, dinner was a one-and-done situation—meat, potatoes, and maybe some bread if there was time to bake it. A fork was a fork, a spoon was a spoon, and nobody cared much about where you set them as long as they worked.
But this wasn't home, and this wasn't a homework assignment she could shrug off.
