"'Edible' and 'decent' aren't always the same," she points out.

Hera raises her eyes. This stretch of land is desolate, only the thin glow of landed ships and shuttles and a few farms spread out across the distance. The cantina is good for an out-of-the-way rendezvous, or a drink undisturbed by the Empire, but now the little light on the ground means the stars shine clear in the unblemished sky. She smiles, briefly, listening to their steps on the rocky ground, feeling the soft, crisp petals of the blossoms between her fingers.

But then, she says, "Maybe we should talk about it."