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I make my way down the stairs, and although I’m beginning to hate that damn tapestry with a vengeance, I take a deep breath, push down my fear and all my other emotions, and walk into the great hall.

Fenrother is sat in his usual position, albeit slumped rather than upright, and depressed looking rather than his rambunctious self. I make my way down the long hall until I reach him.

An entire pig carcass is roasting in the fire.

A. Whole. Pig.

Fenrother looks at it with disinterest. I see the book Meg left is open on the table next to him as I lean against it and fold my arms.

“Any good?” I ask, nodding at the tome.

Fenrother huffs. “Like all witches and warlocks, they meddle where they are not needed,” he says, dismissively.

“I see the result of your hunt.” I turn to the pig. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“I don’t. The Duegar do it.”

“The Duegar? I haven’t seen anyone while I’ve been here except you and Meg,” I say, confused.

“They are not to be seen.” Fenrother sighs, as if he’s explaining something to a child. “To be seen means death to a Duegar.”

“But they’re your servants?”

Fenrother makes a swift hissing noise. “They live here. This is their home. I protect them, and they share their meals with me, and you, it seems,” he grumbles, pointing to the various dishes on the table. “They have made you these.”

I stare at the various covered pieces of crockery.

“How do you know they’re for me?”

“I eat what I catch,” Fenrother growls. “I do not eat sweets.”

I lift the cover on the first dish. Despite his protests, the large tart which smells of apple and cinnamon has a Fenrother-sized bite taken out of it. It’s warm, and it smells delicious. I pick up a two-pronged fork and dive in, groaning with delight as the perfectly crunchy pastry meets the sharp, spiced apple.

A strangled sound at the other end of the table lifts me away from my tart-induced reverie. Fenrother’s entire attention is on me, his hands on the wooden surface, his massive claws curving into the top, the tips burrowing down into the thick wood and varnish.

His eyes are spinning holograms of fire as he watches me. I put down the fork.

“If you don’t want me to eat in front of you, I won’t,” I say.

“I want you to eat,” Fenrother growls, but this one is different. This one is so low in his chest I can hardly make out the words. “Eat while I watch.”

I shouldn’t let him order me to do anything, but there’s something about his tone, something about his demeanour I can’t refuse.

I want to do what he wants me to do.

I lift the fork, cut a slice, spear it, and put it in my mouth. Fenrother’s eyes do not miss a single moment, unblinking, the slit pupils mere lines within the sparkling holographic iris. This piece of tart tastes even better than the last, and despite myself, despite my audience, I hum my approval.

At the end of the table, there is a crack. Fenrother is leaning further forward and has driven his claws far into the wood top. Every muscle in his body is straining against some hidden force.

“The text,” he says through teeth which are very sharp. “The text said about this.”

“What did it say?” I fork another slice into my mouth because, damn, this tart is good.

“It said, for mates to get to know each other, they should eat together.”

“And you arranged this?”

“The Duegar did,” Fenrother says.