So long as she knew she'd be Required to dance at her wedding. Even Badly. Chives is hardly picky about that.

The tilt of his head is severe in and of itself, but doesn't stick--simply moves in a long sideways sweep like clearing a crick from his neck. It is, perhaps, an adjustment. She's allowed to Pick Words about herself, after all.

"As you say, Miss Zoë." A napkin is offered without stress; he Trusts she's a neater eater than many. "It pleases you to have returned to it?"