Ah, but that didn't really answer his question, did it? A greater skill for something did not always translate into a greater love for it, and were Ignis a more foolish man, he might have pointed that out. But not answering the question, especially with that subtle edge of warning, might be an answer all of its own. Certainly nothing to poke at now, but definitely something to be tucked away to consider another time.

After all, he had no want for things to consider at the moment anyway, and, right now, he was consider the end of the meal, the curious quietness of a previously whispering dress, a tumble of hair, and frank statements of intention.

And of distances and fortresses and crumbling walls.

His fingers drifted for a moment along the base of his glass, thumb and forefinger playing at the stem, before he picked it up, lightly, swirling it around as if to determine how much wine remained inside.

"So, then," he said, "do I return to the question about my cooking now, or do have an alternate question to ask now instead?"