The sauce was tangy, acidic, strong with garlic, but the pasta was slippery and difficult to chew, wanting to slip down my throat whole instead of staying beneath my teeth. So, I suppose, they were a bit like worms, only without the taste of protein and a healthy pop. Strange, but not awful. I’d definitely had worse, not that it mattered when you were hungry.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

I took a moment to swallow. “It’s difficult to eat.”

He grinned, leaning back in his chair. “It’s fun.”

“‘Difficult’ and ‘fun’ are the same to you?”

“No.” He paused, his wineglass poised at his lips. “Absolutely not. I despise hard work.”

I don’t know why, but that made me grin a little. “Unless it’s for pasta.”

He choked on his wine and coughed, slapping his chest. I leaned forward to help, but he waved it away. “Blazes, Andromeda, I almost died,” he choked out, wiping his mouth on his sweater again. “You could’ve warned me you were this funny.”

I felt a blush of satisfaction warm my neck. “And you said I have no hobbies.”

“See, we’re making progress. Now I know you can’t stand being touched, you’re secretly funny, and you don’t like pasta.”

“I don’t dislike it.”

“You pull away.”

His voice was oddly concerned when he said it, and I felt my face heat up. I didn’t want to talk about my lack of basic human skills, or why I didn’t possess them. I wasn’t sure why it suddenly mattered, but for whatever reason, I didn’t want him to find me strange.

And I certainly didn’t want any pity.

“There’s nothing wrong with being careful,” I said. “And I meant the pasta.”

“Careful or anxious?” He raised his eyebrows. “And I’ve seen you eat food you like.”

“Careful. I trust people when they prove trustworthy.” This conversation was becoming unmistakably passive-aggressive, and it was annoying … well, partly. Part of me found it intriguing—exciting even—enough to want to see where it would end. In fact, thinking about it made me smirk. “Give me some injera and I’ll finish this off within a minute.”

Magnus broke into a grin as he leaned his elbow on the table, his cheek in his hand. He looked at me … not at my scar or my barely managed frizzy braids, but directly into my eyes, the same way he’d done last night.

I felt myself blushing and looked away before I could fully gather what those eyes were conveying.

“That seems anxious to me,” he said. My gaze shot back to him quickly. He pressed his fingers against his cheek gently, rhythmically, his grin the slightest bit defeated by his words. “Which is fine. I’m anxious, too.”

“About the curse?”

“No. After.”

“What happens after?”