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Greedy, he thought to himself. And wasteful.
She certainly wouldn’t eat it all, not with that raw-boned figure of hers. Was being rail-thin the fashion among wealthy Terrans these days?
It was odd, all he knew of Terrans suggested that the vast majority were desperately poor.
But seeing her hoard and waste resources in this way told him she was certainly a spoiled little rich girl.
He served himself, and accepted the flagon of ale the butler droid offered, taking a refreshing pull before he even set it down.
He was just slicing his venison when he heard the Bergalian gasp softly and looked up to see her cover her mouth with a furry hand.
Glancing over, he saw that Ella was eating her soup with a ravenous intensity.
Using her roll like a plow, she pushed huge chunks of meat onto her spoon without stopping to cut them, and leaned far over the table to devour each bite so that the resulting drips went right back onto her plate.
He had never seen anyone eat so quickly. Something about it was familiar.
He realized with a start that her movements were reminding him of the way the bomb-sniffing canids had bolted down their dinner on the fields back when he was on active duty. Those dogs had been half-feral, and always afraid someone would try to take their meals before they could finish.
Everyone at the table was openly staring, and she didn’t even notice.
For a spoiled little princess, she certainly had the table manners of a street urchin. Was that the way the upper crust Terrans comported themselves, like they didn’t care?
Within minutes, her plate was clean. She had even devoured the soaked roll. She sat back in her chair and rested her arm over her belly, looking like she was about to go to sleep.
“Long day?” the Bergalian asked her kindly.
“Yes,” Ella said with a gentle smile. “I’ve been going since oh-five-hundred. First, I traveled by ship to Sigg-3, and then by sleigh to get here.”
“Terran?” the Maltaffian grunted, his green face showing his repugnance.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But Sigg-3 is my home now.”
“Your baby is very sweet,” the Bergalian said, taking a polite sip of her soup. “How did you and your husband choose Sigg-3?”
Jhon had just taken a swig of ale. He nearly spit it out.
“Oh, h-he’s not my husband,” Ella said quickly. “I’m adopting the baby, and he’s accompanying us to our new home.”
“If you’re not the father, why’s he look like you?” the Maltaffian demanded, his eyes fixed on Jhon.
In Jhon’s experience, Maltaffians thought they were pretty tough. They all had to complete guard training, and those who chose it as a profession were the most sought-after personal bodyguards in the sector.
But they weren’t dragons.
Jhon fixed the Maltaffian in his gaze until the other man looked away.
“Imprinting,” Jhon said lightly, a moment later.
“Imprinting?” Ella echoed, sounding surprised. “Like a duck?”
“I have no idea what a duck is,” Jhon admitted.
“It’s a bird, but it spends most of its time swimming,” Ella told him eagerly. “When it’s on land, it waddles around on big orange feet, and the babies imprint on their mother. That’s why they always follow behind her, all in a row. It’s really cute.”
“I see,” Jhon said. “Bo imprinted on me when I took custody of him after he was born from his pod. That is why he has taken on my coloration. Imberians are chameleon-like.”
“Lovely,” the Bergalian said, spooning a little fruit onto her plate. “It’s wonderful to have the evidence right in front of you that you’re doing a good job caring for him.”
