"It takes ninety seconds in the microwave," she says, taking a package and flipping it over. She's not offended—she's actually sort of curious. Wants to try one. Just to see how awful it is. She kind of smiles, glancing over at Austria again, her expression almost mischievous. "Do you even know how long a real stew takes to make? Maybe you got to come home to home-cooked meals, but I was the one slaving away in the kitchens."

She can joke about it now—when not a soldier, a servant—but the reason for the almost is that, well, she was a servant to a haughty aristocrat, and some things are awkward. She was only in the kitchens because she kept trying to run off with the horses if allowed to work outside.