She pressed two leaf-wrapped morsels into his hand.
The Baron picked up a sliver of meat, pressed the morsel into his mouth, chewed slowly, swallowed.
He could still taste the morsel she had fed him—bird flesh and grain bound with spice honey and encased in a leaf.
Through it all, he had sensed the edge of cynicism in her—he knew her so well!—but nothing could stop this thing that had begun with a morsel of food.
She thought then how peaceful it was here in this moment of their tiredness, and she recalled once hearing the minstrel-warrior Gurney Halleck say, "Better a dry morsel and quietness therewith than a house full of sacrifice and strife."
She could still taste their morning meal—the morsel of bird flesh and grain bound within a leaf with spice honey—and it came to her that the use of time was turned around here: night was the day of activity and day was the time of rest.