She swallowed her ire as he strolled toward his clothes. Food. Drink. She must keep him happy. No matter whether or not it killed her. Then he'd well, the list couldn't be endless, could it?
"I have some brandy and some claret. Which would you prefer?"
"Either. Long as it's good."
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him wedge the apple between his teeth, then tug his shirt over his head.
"Long as you don't go putting any arsenic in it."
"No, and I won't spit in it either." Feel like it perhaps. But that was it. She edged the top off the crystal decanter. At least the wine cellar was reasonably well stocked. That would keep Flint happy enough so long as it didn't stop him performing. "Here."
"Set it down, will you?"
"Certainly. Where would you like me to set it? Down your throat?"
