He stiffened as if she’d slapped him, then grabbed two plates from the counter, returned to the stove, and started dishing out the food. Every move he made radiated temper as he put the plates of food on the table, then dug out silverware from a drawer and dropped it on the table.

As he pulled out his chair, she gathered her courage to ask, “May I have some cream and sugar?”

He paused. “You didn’t use any last night.”

True, but last night she hadn’t known how bad this stuff tasted.

A sugar bowl and a small glass bottle appeared above the table. They hovered for a moment before gently coming to rest within easy reach.

She added two teaspoons of sugar—then added a heaping third when he turned away from the table for a moment—and as much cream as she could fit into the mug without having it spill over the rim. She stirred carefully and tasted cautiously. It was lighter and sweeter—and it was still terrible.

He sat down, chose some silverware from the pile on the table, and said, “Eat.”

She stared mournfully at what could have been a very fine steak if it hadn’t been slapped into a skillet with no regard for its potential. Suppressing a sigh she was sure would only irritate him further, she selected her silverware and began to eat. The fried potatoes were quite good, the scrambled eggs were bland but not bad, and the steak, despite its treatment, was still tender. But every bite she chewed and swallowed was an effort of will. She was too aware of the annoyed man sitting across from her, too aware that she hadn’t yet performed her first task in her new position and he was already displeased with her.

After a few bites, her aching stomach threatened to rebel if she forced another mouthful of food into it, so she pushed the food around, wishing the meal would end—and afraid to consider what might happen when it did.

Suddenly, Yaslana set his knife and fork down and pushed back his chair, his half-eaten meal another silent criticism.

“I have to go out for a few hours,” he said. “I should be back by midday.”

As he moved toward the archway, she half turned in her chair but couldn’t look at him. “What—What would you like me to do?”

“Whatever hearth witches do.”

Defeated, she said, “Nothing important.”

She thought she’d said it quietly enough that he wouldn’t hear, but he stopped in the archway and stared at her for a long moment. Then he was gone.