For a moment there is only the sound of her breathing. Not quiet and not gentle, but the heroic effort of somebody trying to will themselves not to cry. This is not a struggle marked by such silly failures as quiet sniffles or shuddering breaths. No, she is much more in control of herself than that. Her battle is readable by the tension in the tips of her ears, in how tight she sets her jaw for one single second, in the vaguest turning of her head, and in the way she holds her breath after taking a long and suspicious sniff of the air around her. 

She lets it out again, and she is the master of her tears once more. Though not (as it turns out) her blood, which has rushed all to her face and turned her complexion crimson enough to carry the flag of Empire. 

She'd slipped up. She'd lost herself to bad habits and assumptions and the stress of the job, and... she'd been rescued. She was still standing. She doesn't understand why. But she knows what it means that she is. Quickly she snatches the pot and returns it to the heat, stirring it counterclockwise for exactly sixteen strokes. That might not had made any difference at all, but she smells the air again and relaxes so much it's a miracle she does not faint.

"...I did not tell a single lie. Sir will not have had opportunities to study wonderberries because Sir is not from Tellus. They are one of Her Im... of Nero IV's, erm," she clicks her tongue against her teeth in search of the word, "...cultivars. A rare export even to nearby systems. There is no question who is the better cook. I would not presume to gloat over my betters."

Her curtsy is so practiced she is deep into the bend of her knees and the positioning of her hands before the notable flinch makes it clear she's realized which outfit she is wearing. She finishes the gesture anyway, and simply attempts to recover by radiating perfection overtop of the blunder. Which she immediately ruins by dropping into a sharp bow as soon as she's standing again.

She drizzles the syrup over a bowl of popcorn and holds it in her left hand without making a move toward either incarnation of Redana. She stares directly at them, and then at the floor directly in front of them when seeing Ember in her state proves too much to handle. She waits. Watches. Waits. Watches. Waits.

...The syrup hardens into a candy coating as it cools. She moves at last, trembling worse than if she'd been escorted to an auction audition again. Her hand finds Dany's, and places the bowl into those tiny, delicate hands. Her tail is bushing so much it seems to have tripled in size, and she hastily unbuttons her coat and removes it so she can throw it at Ember.

Bella turns away and worries her palms against her undershirt, all around her stomach especially, as though she were looking for her voice somewhere inside it. At long last she manages a sigh, and half turns her head so that her golden eyes can watch her Mistress and this Master Chef at the same time. 

She draws herself up with purpose.

"I... would like," she falters, and dips her head in shame, "To know what a croissant tastes like. If... I could have that, I would..."

She glances at the door to the theater, and dares not speak any further.