It was a good thing that Bazie had taught him how to cook. Yes, there was food here, but it wasn’t the sort of thing the ordinary city-bred boy would have recognized as such.

:I’d have told you what to do,: Cymry said, her head sticking in the door, watching him, as he baked currant-filled oatcakes on a stone on the hearth. He’d also put together a nice bean soup from the dried beans and spices he’d found, but he didn’t think it would be done any time soon, and he was hungry now. :I wouldn’t let you starve. I’m perfectly capable of telling you how to use just about anything in this Waystation.:

“Somehow I ain’t s’prised,” he replied, turning the cakes deftly once one side was brown. “Is there anything ye can’t do?”

:I’m a bit handicapped by the lack of hands,: she admitted cheerfully.

She—and he—were both much cleaner at this point. Beside the pump, there had been a generous trough, easily filled and easily emptied. After she’d drunk her fill, and he had washed and brushed her down as she asked, he’d had a bath in it. Then he emptied it out and refilled it for her drinking. The cold bath had felt wonderful; it was the first time in a week that he’d been able to cool down. He’d also washed up his clothing; it was hanging on a bush just outside. It was a lot more comfortable to sit around in his singlet, since there wasn’t anyone but Cymry to see him anyway.

She’d told him which herbs to make into a poultice that did a lot to ease the ache of his eye and nose, and more to make into a tea that did something about his throbbing head. She already knew, evidently, that he could cook, and had left him alone while he readied his dinner over the tiny hearth in the Waystation. Now he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t figured out she was a Companion immediately.

Unless it was just that the idea of a Companion wandering around in an old worn set of tack was so preposterous, and the idea of a Companion deciding to make a Herald out of a thief was still more so.

:I told them to tack me up in the oldest kit in the stables that would fit me:, she offered, as he scooped the oatcakes off their stone and juggled one from hand to hand, waiting for it to cool enough to eat. He gave her a curious stare.

“Ye—ye kidnapped me!” he accused.

:Well would you have come with me if I’d walked up to you and Chosen you?: she asked, her head cocked to one side. I am sorry about your nose, but that was an accident.:

“But—”