In the silence that fell between them, Jazelle munched on her breakfast, one hand still shoved in her hoodie’s muff, and careful to keep an eye on Sunder. She was still not quite sure what to make of him, whether or not she should trust him and his apparent kindness in saving and taking her temporarily under his wing. She glanced around at the tables, at the remaining servants chatting and laughing, the warmth filling the room from the chef’s fire as the man bustled about to keep what food still cooked from burning.
	As real as it felt, she could not get over the strangeness of it all, the improbability of a world like this existing anywhere outside her head. A look of conflict crossed her eyes as she tried to decide whether or not to believe what her senses were telling her. 
 	Noticing Sunder look to her, her attention snapped back to him. She held her breath at his expression, angling herself so she was a bit further away in her seat, a piece of the unidentified meat on her fork.
	She snorted bitterly, and absently started to push the food around on her plate with her fork-turned-push-broom at the concept of him sending her to Whitehall to get her out of his hair.
	“How very generous of you,” she muttered into her plate, sarcasm slathering her voice.
	Jazelle shrugged nonchalantly at Sunder’s question. “If that’s what floats your boat, I suppose it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t, would it?” Satisfied she had mixed up the food on her plate well enough, she brought the fork to her mouth, bits of other food now sticking to the meat.