Alcuin frowned faintly at the thought of his master being treated so rudely. No one would have ever dared speak out of turn to his previous masters; the one because he wielded far too much power and influence, and the other for fear of his cutting wit. Scott might not have been among the ruling class but he was most certainly a peer – whether he liked it or not – and was entitled to a certain degree of civility in all things. Alcuin huffed his displeasure and replied, “A long way from home, we are, where the people are friendly and the food provincial.”
There was little doubt in his mind the food would be faintly substandard at its finest, or a lifeless facsimile at worst. It took genuine talent and dedication to satisfy foreign palates, and it seemed to him that there were always more scoundrels operating beneath a veneer of arrogance and authenticity than not. “Tell them a wise man feeds the were,” his lips quirked into something approaching a wry smirk whilst he peeked into the take-out bag. “lest they find themselves on the dinner table instead.”