Marc

“Eat slowly," the blueblood said. "Don't cut your food with the fork. Cut it with the knife, and make the pieces small enough so you can answer a question without having to swallow first."

Why me? "Right. Any other tips?" Her sarcasm whistled right over his head.

"Yes. Look at me and not at your plate. If you have to look at your plate, glance at it occasionally."

Rose put down her fork. "Lord Submarine..."

"Camarine."

"Whatever."

"You can call me Declan." He said it as if granting her a knighthood. The nerve.

"Declan, then. How did you spend your day?"

He frowned.

"It's a simple question: How did you spend your day? What did you do prior to the fight and the pancake making?"

"I rested from my journey," he said with a sudden regal air.

"You took a nap"

"Possibly."

"I spent my day scrubbing, vacuuming and dusting ten offices in the Broken. I got there at seven thirty in the morning and left at six. My back hurts, I can still smell bleach on my fingers, and my feet feel as flat as these pancakes. Tomorrow, I have to go back to work, and I want to eat my food in peace and quiet. I have good table manners. They may not be good enough for you, but they're definitely good enough for the Edge, and they are the height of social graces in this house. So please keep your critique to yourself."

The look on his face was worth having him under her roof. As if he had gotten slapped.

She smiled at him. "Oh and thank you for the pancakes. They are delicious.”
― Ilona Andrews, On the Edge