The dining table was long enough that he could not see the far end of it clearly without turning his head.
He had measured it once, when he was younger, pacing it out in careful steps while the servants were elsewhere.
Thirty-two steps from one end to the other.
He remembered this because it was the kind of thing his mind held onto, numbers and distances and useless information.
He sat at his end of it now, in his chair, which was the same chair he always sat in, positioned at the precise distance from the table his tutors had determined was correct for his posture.
His hands were in his lap.
The food was on the table.
Not in front of him.
In front of them, arranged across the considerable distance between his chair and his parents, with the quiet abundance of a household that had never had occasion to wonder whether there would be enough.
