Chapter Thirty One

“That’s why.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.” He gave my cheekbone one last graze with his thumb, and then I heard a utensil scrape against a plate. “Open.”

At his command my mouth opened of its own accord. A fork touched my lips and tongue, and I tasted metal, and then salmon, light and flaky and perfectly flavored with herbs. He took a bite, and then told me to open again, feeding me potatoes, thick and strong with garlic, and then green beans, buttery and crisp. It was the perfect meal, filling and balanced and bursting with flavor, and even the oddity of being blindfolded and fed like an invalid faded.

The maid brought dessert the moment we had finished the main course. It was a crème brûlée, creamy and sweet and thick.

“You weren’t kidding,” I said. “rebecca is an amazing chef.”

“I chose her out of a thousand candidates. I spent nearly a year vetting each individual applicant. I only interviewed four of them, and she, obviously, is the one I chose. She is a miracle worker, truly.”

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