Cross my heart. [ he promises, but can't help but give a hook of a smile, trying to match her seriousness and failing. ]

Nobody'd send a spy to ask after Orlesian table manners, anyhow. [ A beat. ] I bet they've got books on that, actually, but seems like it'd be hard to capture the, uh, nuance.

[ What the fuck are Orlesians on about, anyway. ]