“Oh,” Jane says. She doesn’t apologize, though she does mutter a little as she seats herself, the feet of the high-backed chair scraping heavily on the floor as she drags it out. Once sitting, she stares at the plate. There’s three utensils on either side of it for a total of six, for one plate of food. She wonders if the Beast will use a fork or if she will eat with her claws or if she’ll eat at all. She wonders if the Beast’s mouth is large enough to swallow the food, maybe even the plate, whole. She wonders what day it is, and about saying Kiddush. She picks up the heavy goblet at her plateside and sees it’s full of deep red wine; she puts it back down.
“Alright,” she says, to the Beast or to herself or to no one, and takes a fork--she chooses at random--and takes a bite of something. It doesn’t crunch, and it isn’t meat, so she takes another bite. She puts the fork down. Her face feels hot, knee bouncing under the table. “Why do you want to eat with me?”