It took Jazelle a short second to register what was happening. One moment, she had raised her fork, and the next it was frozen in her hand half way to its destination, her arm refusing to obey the last subconscious order she gave it. Her breathing and heart rate increased in a panic as she tried to move—to drop the fork, stand up, [i]anything[/i]—but only her chest rose and fell with each heavy, anxious breath. 
	When Sunder, the undoubted culprit behind her immobility, turned to her, she could only see him out of the corner of her eye. Her breath caught in her lungs.
	[i]Move, move, MOVE![/i] she mentally screamed at herself when Sunder paused. She could have sworn her pinky twitched, but that might have just been an illusion from the firelight. Whatever Sundering had done, [i]was[/i] doing, she had no idea how to counter it, or if it was even possible to do so. She tried to swallow to offset the pit in her stomach as Sunder took his time with his food, the reality of what he could do to her sinking in.
	Jazelle’s concentration split between her fruitless attempt at trying to move, and Sunder’s next words to her. 
	Unexpectedly and rather suddenly, she regained control of her body. Her hand pulled down toward the table, the fork flying from her fingers, and her legs only partially got the memo she had changed her mind about trying to stand, making her weight distribute oddly. The chair scraped against the floor as both she and it toppled over. She managed to grab the edge of the table, but it did her little good as she still landed on the floor, her heart pounding madly and breaths heaving. The chair clattered next to her on its side, and her butterfly knife knocked from her pocket and skidded a couple feet away under the table. 
	Jazelle gritted her teeth and glared at Sunder with a mix of malice and fear. With no little effort, she bit back a retort about respect being earned, sure plenty of eyes had turned their way at the ruckus she caused.
	“As you wish, Mr. High-and-mighty,” she muttered under her breath, her voice a bit tremulous and careful to keep low enough that she thought Sunder wouldn’t hear.
	With a shaking hand, she swallowed hard and collected her knife, looking away from Sunder only long enough to retrieve it. Using the table to help her up, she got to her feet and shoved both hands, and the knife, back in her hoodie’s muff. She cast the still mostly full plate of food a quick glance, her appetite lost.
	Though in no hurry to be “outfitted,” which she feared meant she would have to give up her hoodie, she searched for Priscilla among the faces of the older girl’s fellow servants, ignoring any who may have decided to allow their gaze to linger in her and Sunder’s direction. Spotting her, Jazelle propped the chair back up, making a bit more noise with it than necessary, then made her way toward Priscilla instead of waving, her shoulders tight and head bent as she looked back toward Sunder a couple times from behind the vail of her hair.