The garden table was set with silver cutlery and porcelain plates, the scent of roasted lamb mingling with autumn air. Kya sat opposite Reginald Whitmore, Julian at her side, the cashmere blanket folded neatly on the chair beside him.
At first, the old man’s tone was warm, almost grandfatherly. He lifted his glass of water, his eyes sharp despite the tremor in his hand.
“So, Kya,” he began, voice gravelly but steady, “tell me—what is your favorite book?”
Kya blinked, surprised by the simplicity. She answered with grace, naming a novel that had shaped her thinking. Reginald nodded, his expression unreadable.
“And your favorite meal?” he asked next, spearing a piece of lamb. “If you could eat only one dish for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
Kya smiled faintly, answering with
