It burned away her numbness, spreading outward from her chest in a blissful wave of awakening. A bowl was pressed to her lips, and a hand tilted back her head. She swallowed, tasting a broth of spice and vigor. She spluttered and gasped. A man held her. Not the swordsman, not the lord. The cripple. An amber amulet dangled from his neck against her cheek. His eyes were a similar hue, like honey but darkened by sorrow or anger. He did not return her gaze. Setting her down, he tucked his amulet back under his white tunic. He lifted himself onto his crutches. His hands were tattooed with geometric figures, six-sided marks. Aja couldn’t say what they meant. A shadow fell over him and her. The Chef leaned in and gripped her arm. His touch was like hot grease dripping on her flesh. Those same hands had torn the wings off faeries. “You were right to come to the Banquet.” The Chef pinched her arm as if testing the meat. “Your skin is too dry. You’re starved of experience. You must eat more of life.”
