“What’s wrong?” he asked as Zylah pulled a face. “There’s no canna—” A brown paper bag appeared in Holt’s hand. Zylah sniffed at the air. “Did you just steal that?” “Zylah, how little you think of me still. I always pay. The baker will find the correct amount in his till.” He held a hand over his heart in mock offence and winked. Ass.
