"Hm." The book is laid open on the counter, and he goes to look at it. He's found on numerous occasions that while he can see perfectly well into the distance, words on the page do not resolve without considerable squinting and effort, and he's largely not bothered with reading since he left Constantinople and had no princely studies to be pursue.

He spares a glance to see whether Laertes is actually paying any attention to him, and then bends to the page.

"The lemon peel, yes. And cinnamon."