"Will you show me the farm, Garion?" she asked very quietly.

"If you wish."

"Does Lady Polgara really like to cook that much?" She looked across the warm kitchen to where Aunt Pol, humming happily to herself, was rolling out a pie crust.

"I believe she does," Garion answered. "Her kitchen is an orderly kind of place, and she likes order. Food goes in one end and supper comes out the other." He looked around at the low-beamed room with all the polished pots and pans hanging on the wall. His life seemed to have come full-circle. "I grew up in this room," he said quietly.

"There are worse places to grow up, I suppose."

Ce'Nedra's tiny hand crept into his. There was a kind of tentativeness in her touch - almost as if she were not entirely certain how the gesture would be received. There was something peculiar and rather comforting about holding her hand. It was a very small hand; sometimes Garion found himself forgetting just how diminutive Ce'Nedra really was. At the moment she seemed very tiny and very vulnerable, and Garion felt protective for some reason. He wondered if it would be appropriate to put his arm about her shoulder.

Together they wandered about the farmstead, looking into barns and stables and hen roosts. Finally they reached the hayloft that had always been Garion's favorite hiding place. "I used to come here when I knew that Aunt Pol had work for me to do," he confessed with a rueful little laugh.

"Didn't you want to work?" Ce'Nedra asked him. "Everybody here seems to be busy every single moment."

"I don't mind working," Garion told her. "It's just that some of the things she wanted me to do were pretty distasteful."

"Like scrubbing pots?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.

"That's not one of my favorites - no."

They sat together on the soft, fragrant hay in the loft. Ce'Nedra, her fingers now locked firmly in Garion's, absently traced designs on the back of his hand with her other forefinger. "You were very brave this afternoon, Garion," she told him seriously.

"Brave?"

"You gave up something that's always been very special and very important to you."

"Oh," he said. "You mean Zubrette. I think it was for the best, really. Rundorig loves her, and he can take care of her in ways that I probably won't be able to."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Zubrette needs a lot of special attention. She's clever and pretty, but she's not really very brave. She used to run away from trouble a lot. She needs someone to watch over her and keep her warm and safe - somebody who can devote his entire life to her. I don't think I'll be able to do that."

"If you'd stayed here at the farm, though, you'd have married her, wouldn't you?"

"Probably," he admitted, "but I didn't stay at the farm."

"Didn't it hurt - giving her up like that?"