[The stew smells delicious. Far better fare than anything he's had in-- years, honestly. Miranda's fare was hearty but simple, and she was no talented cook, and the first thing Silver prepared that he ate was also, coincidentally, the last thing. James studies the bowl a moment, and then he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and picks up the spoon. No doubt table manners haven't metamorphosed too significantly in the intervening years.
He damn near almost chokes on the first mouthful. It isn't that it's hot, or the ingredients unseemly, but the amount of flavour to the concoction is so strong he has to stop himself from spitting it out on reflex. It's overwhelming in many, many more regards than he's accustomed to, and he sets the spoon gingerly back down. Swallows with an effort.]
More ambitious, I should think. May I have a glass of water?
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He damn near almost chokes on the first mouthful. It isn't that it's hot, or the ingredients unseemly, but the amount of flavour to the concoction is so strong he has to stop himself from spitting it out on reflex. It's overwhelming in many, many more regards than he's accustomed to, and he sets the spoon gingerly back down. Swallows with an effort.]
More ambitious, I should think. May I have a glass of water?