Dinner for the District Seven team that night was a luscious lamb stew with plums, with cherry clafoutis for dessert, all served with a sweet, sticky wine.
The atmosphere at the table, however, was not as nice.
Berry was uncomfortably silent, having had little success with having a full-fledged conversation with Sylvia. All she said, somewhat angrily, was that training was "so-so".
Logan, on the other hand, was able to make small talk with Markus about his allies, along with giving him tips for his private session the next day. Markus answered all his questions, but it was obvious that he wasn't particularly receptive to them today. Probably just nerves, Logan thought.
Then he turned his attention to Sylvia.
He'd drunk two and a half glasses of wine and was feeling a little brazen. He decided that there wouldn't be any harm in trying to get a few more words out of Sylvia than just "so-so".
"So, Sylvia," he began, "how was training today?"
"So-so," Sylvia responded, a common catchphrase at this point.
"Aw, come on, you can give me more than that! What did you do?"
"They wouldn't let me create lots of fire. They said I could only stay for an hour."
"Oh, really? Why is that?" Logan fully knew the answer to that, but he wasn't going to let this conversation die out so soon.
"They said that I needed to let-" And just like that, she abruptly stopped talking. Mavrorin had struck again.
Logan blinked, making sure that Sylvia really had just stopped in the middle of her sentence.
"What was that about?"
Sylvia had her head bowed down to her plate, but her eyes flitted up at Logan. She said only one word: "Mavrorin."
Logan blinked again. "I'm sorry?"
"Mavrorin. I hate it when it happens." Sylvia refused to elaborate, and the four Victors shared a confused look round the table. Even the Avoxes standing to attention nearby seemed unsettled.
Sylvia kept on eating, having said enough for the evening.