The small fork is in her hand. It scrapes a steady circle through meals that never seem to diminish: Fresh and vivid with the green color of bounty.

Sennara blinks. Presses harder, experimental, and watches a gold tine bend against shimmering plate. The embossing ripples out into new pattern.

(Who made this? How would you make that?)

"Spot," The name tastes strange. Must be fond, for the indulgent smile of a woman who looks very much like him. Sennara knows her from description alone, "What do we eat?"