Chapter 57: Midnight Manners and Modest Hunger
Chapter 56: Midnight Manners and Modest Hunger
Lyria’s POV
The silence that followed my words was not entirely comfortable.
Corvin’s jaw had tightened visibly, the pleasant mask he wore slipping just enough to reveal the irritation beneath it. He was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. Certainly not by me.
I kept my hands folded neatly before me and my expression carefully blank.
Baron Redwick cleared his throat, redirecting attention towards himself.
"Lyria."
The Baron said my name slowly, as though testing the weight of it on his tongue. His green eyes settled on me with an expression I could not entirely read — thoughtful, perhaps.
He opened his mouth to continue.
And then my stomach growled.
Loudly.
Magnificently, even.
I pressed my lips together.
The sound echoed through the kitchen with absolutely no regard for the tension it had just interrupted. How my stomach always picks the wrong time to let itself be known, I’ll never know.
Corvin’s face twisted immediately.
"Mother Night’s Mercy," he said, his voice threaded with distaste. "Have you truly no manners whatsoever, Lyria?"
I said nothing.
Baron Redwick turned toward the Marquess with a frown that sat precisely between disapproval and mild exasperation.
"Marquess Hale," he began, his voice even, "do not be so harsh. One cannot control when the stomach decides it must be fed. I confess, my own has been rather insistent this evening. Were it not for the fact that my valet and I were opportune enough to meet you, Marquess, I would have remained in my chambers, quietly suffering through its growls."
"Indeed," he added, "it is contrary to my principles to indulge in a late-night repast. Normally, one should not eat at this hour for several reasons:
He lifted one finger.
"Firstly, the digestive system operates with considerably less efficiency in the later hours, when the body has begun its natural process of rest and restoration. Food consumed at such an hour places an unnecessary burden upon organs that are, by all reasonable expectation, preparing to cease active function for the evening."
A second finger joined the first.
"Secondly, the quality of sleep is measurably diminished when the stomach is engaged in digestion. The body cannot simultaneously commit its resources to both rest and the processing of food with equal effectiveness."
A third finger.
"Thirdly, there is the matter of discipline. A gentleman who submits to every appetite the moment it presents itself is a gentleman who has surrendered governance of himself to his own baser instincts, which is—"
A fourth finger.
"—fourthly, a habit that, once established, tends to compound over time, leading to a general erosion of self-regulation that extends beyond the matter of food into broader patterns of—"
He raised his fifth finger.
"And fifthly—"
Corvin cleared his throat, the sound sharp, drawing the Baron’s attention as effectively as any bell. "Baron Redwick," he said pointedly, "we are not gathered here for a lecture on why it is inadvisable to indulge at night."
Baron Redwick, slightly flushed with the mild rebuke, adjusted the thin frame of his spectacles with a careful finger. "Indeed," he said softly, conceding the point with a small nod. "I sometimes have the unfortunate habit of providing far too much information."
Corvin did not confirm or deny this assessment, which was, in its own way, confirmation enough.
The Baron turned away from him then, and his attention moved to me.
His expression shifted into something I considered polite.
"In any case," he said, "the cook is presently preparing something. It will not be elaborate, given the hour, but it ought to suffice."
He gestured vaguely toward the far end of the kitchen, where the cook bent quietly over the range, the faint smell of something warm already beginning to drift through the air.
"I had advised the Marquess against waking him," the Baron continued, "as it seemed an unnecessary imposition upon the man at this hour. The Marquess did not share my view."
He adjusted his spectacles once more.
"Since the cook is already engaged, however, it seems only sensible to make proper use of the occasion." He looked at me directly. "You are welcome to join me."
I blinked at him in shock. Twice in one day, someone in position has offered me food.
Before I could respond, a sound came from Corvin’s direction.
It was not quite a scoff. It was not quite a laugh. It occupied the unpleasant territory somewhere between the two. And it sounded awfully like a pig grunting.
Honestly, at some point, I had expected an apology from Corvin and perhaps an explanation too, but I had gotten none of that. He didn’t seek me out at all, and the first time we could officially have a conversation, he treated me with disdain, and I have learnt to reciprocate the energy which people give me.
"I beg your pardon," Corvin said, his voice light but filled with an edge. "Are you quite serious, Baron Redwick?"
The Baron turned toward him.
"I generally endeavour to be," he replied.
Corvin’s gaze slid to me, then back to the Baron, his expression one of open distaste.
"You would allow someone of her station to eat alongside you, from the same plate?" he asked.
The Baron’s frown was immediate.
"I did not suggest she eat from the same plate," he said. "I suggested she eat from the same pot. There is a distinction."
Corvin made a short, irritated sound.
"And what distinction would that be, precisely?" he asked. "Servants do not eat from the same vessel as their masters. The principle is the same regardless of whether one speaks of a plate or a pot."
"Perhaps," the Baron replied evenly, "had you allowed me to reach my fifth point, I might have addressed the broader matter of principle."
Corvin stared at him.
The Baron continued without particular urgency.
"In any case, your argument does not apply here, Marquess Hale. The girl is not my servant." He straightened slightly. "She does not belong to my household. I therefore see no grounds upon which I might reasonably object to her eating from whatever vessel the cook has prepared, should she wish to do so."
Corvin’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
He looked at me again, lips curling in distaste.
"She does not deserve it," he said.
