When I entered the dining room, Magnus was sitting alone reading, his legs propped on the table. So it would just be the two of us—a relief and a stress combined. Magnus was a handful on his own, but at least I wouldn’t have to deal with Kelela, as well. One arrogant brat was more than enough.

I sat in my regular chair, wincing at the screech of wood on wood as I scooted it closer to the table.

“Evening, Andromeda,” he said, keeping his eyes on his book.

“Good evening.”

“Give me a moment and I’ll look at you.”

Odd how much that sounded like a threat.

“Oh, Magnus,” Peggy fussed, entering through the kitchen, holding two plates piled with something tan and red. “Feet down, child.”

He pulled his feet onto his chair, resting the book on his raised knees.

“Thank you,” I said as she laid a plate in front of me. It was a pile of long, pale … things, with a red sauce smothering it.

“Put your feet on the floor like a gentleman,” I heard Peggy say, though I was still trying to figure out what I was about to eat. Worms? But they didn’t seem to have any insides— “You’re not a cat.”

Magnus hissed at her, and I smirked and looked up.

Peggy’s face was flaming red. “Feet. Down.”

Magnus finally obliged, sliding his feet off to slap onto the floor.

She nodded in satisfaction, set his plate in front of him, and left the room.

He sat there, quietly, until we could no longer hear her footfalls. Then he slid his book down the length of the table, away from our food, and replaced his legs on top. And, as promised, he looked at me. “That woman would starve me on principle,” he said, picking up a small three-pronged tool.

I followed his example and picked up mine. “May I ask what this is?”

“You’ve never eaten pasta before?” Magnus sat upright, planting his feet on the floor, my ignorance seeming to make him forget he was trying to be defiant. “I fell in love with it after spending a summer in Florence.”

I’d meant the tools we were holding, and the word “Florence” didn’t mean anything to me, but I supposed it didn’t matter. I watched him stick the tool into the center of his pasta and twist. The pasta swirled around it, creating a small bundle.

I tried my best to copy his motion, but twirling it with one hand was trickier than it looked.

Magnus took a bottle of wine out from under the table and uncorked it, pouring it far higher than one serving.

“How was your day?” I asked, to interrupt the silence. I knew from living with Jember so long what that much alcohol meant—physically, mentally, emotionally, it didn’t matter what. Something was hurting.