Szarka, for her part, has been all but exhausted by the immense labor of Dinner, and she tucks her chin into the crook over Sagramore's elbow and looks up at him with innocent ice-blue eyes. Her entire face is festooned with wet breadcrumbs and shreds of chicken.

Laertes, meanwhile, gathers up the bowl and sets it in the sink, then fetches a dishtowel and mops up the carnage.