Sheya waits, standing for an answer, not one to interrupt what length of silence may exist before he walks over to her. She can see his expression, what shifts occur on it; understanding them for what they are, but unable to predict their reasoning. Why then, he switches his interest from a food for himself, to a food of her choosing.

The attitudes and reactions of those on this vessel are strange, unpredictable. How can she pick a recipe when she knows none, has no inclinations for tastes, when she eats little? She watches him quietly as she processes the request, how to go forward. Many have told her, we're the same, and yet, she's not so sure about this assessment.

Sheyra turns to the book with her fingers between the pages. Carefully, as she was before, "...If you would allow me, I would like to see and make the recipe for, or with you, the curry that closely resembles the curry of your own home. I will offer my hands to this task as you allow."

She drops the title serjin, unsure of how well it fits. Perhaps, in truth, the only serjin is herself - an other worker, one that isn't them, but still a tool of the vessel.

So be it. It's better than where she was, and she'll do anything to keep this role.