He sees me coming.
"You didn't eat."
His eye moves from my face to the plate. Back to my face.
"That's not—"
"If you say 'not my responsibility' I'm going to stand here until you take this plate and it's going to be very awkward for both of us."
He looks at me for a long moment.
"I don't doubt it."
Then he takes the plate.
I sit down. Not beside him—a few feet away, against the same wall, close enough to talk without raising my voice. The wood is rough through my shirt. The ground is cold.
He turns the plate.
"You seasoned this."
"I season everything. That's what herbs are for."
"With what?"
"Wild garlic. Sage. A little fat for the sear." I pull my knees up. "The garlic was growing on the ridge path, by the way. Just sitting there. Has nobody picked it?"
"No."
"There's enough for weeks. I'll gather more tomorrow. Also there's wood sorrel by the stream that would make a decent sauce if I had vinegar, which I don't, so that's a project for later, and the—" I stop. "Eat."
He cuts a piece. Puts it in his mouth. Chews.
I should look at the trees.
Swallows.
I'm going to look at the trees.In a second.
"Good?" I ask.
"Yes."
"How good? Scale of one to ten. One being raw meat, which is apparently the standard around here. Ten being—I don't know, food that's been prepared with any thought at all."
He cuts another piece. "It's good."
"That's not a number."
"I don't rank food."
"Everyone ranks food. You just ranked it. You said 'good.' That's at least a seven."
A sound in his throat—not quite a laugh, not quite anything, really.
We sit. It should be uncomfortable but it's not, which is maybe worse, because uncomfortable I can handle.
"The boy." I lean back against the wall. "Soren."
