Her grin widens, then turns to a guffaw as the compliment takes a turn. "Wonderful!" she repeats, incredulous, around a mouthful of toast - it's sheer luck that she doesn't spew crumbs everywhere. She makes herself swallow, then giggles. "I'm not sure about that. My pie doesn't even turn into live birds."

She takes a measured sip of her own concoction. It might be stronger than the last one. At this point, it's sort of hard to tell. She plans on taking it slow, either way; one of them ought to at least be in somewhat decent shape, and Iman is more in need of some fun.

When Iman starts to go for the bread, Greta gives the plate a little nudge. "That's the idea," she sing-songs back in the same key. She's not entirely sure why her friend seems hesitant to just take a piece, so she lifts it off the plate herself. "Here," she says, and she honestly means to just pass it like a normal person, but she somehow misjudges the distance and comes perilously close to thrusting it right into Iman's nose. "Oh no!" she gasps out, equally mortified and amused. "I'm so sorry! Did I hit you?" She keels over the table with a thoroughly embarrassed cackle, burying her face in the crook of one arm while the other lists a little, bread still technically on offer.