After a while, the waves of analytical probing disappeared, and everyone sat down.
"Why is everyone sitting?" I asked, turning toward Fiona.
She was busy playing with strands of her glossy black hair, swaying coquettishly from side to side, clearly delighted to be among the elite.
I truly did not understand why people cared so much about status, money, and the opinions of others.
Well… perhaps I could understand caring about the opinions of those close to you.
But strangers?
What an inferiority complex.
Fiona turned toward me and whispered so softly only I could hear:
"Here, meal times are not decided by the guest's wishes," she said, then added,
"Everyone must follow protocol."
"And what is that?"
"Every two hours, a meal service is brought down.
A guest may choose their dish—or refuse entirely.
But in either case, they are required to remain seated at their table for no less than half an hour."
"Oh," I said in surprise.
"To be honest, that's actually a good system."
