"That there be Mrs. Apples," Bing said by way of introduction. He seemed to expect some response to that, so Lysander gave the goat a gentlemanly nod of greeting, although she lost interest in him immediately upon discovery that he carried nothing edible in his hands.

"Blind as a bat, she is, but she does all right for herself. She'll be having that kid soon. I'm hopin' for a doe, and then we'll have t' start of a little herd. It'll be nice having proper livestock about, instead of nothin' but those dratted chickens."

Lysander looked across the stable at the only other occupied stall, which was as far away from Icarus and the goat as could be managed. A short-legged, heavy-bodied pony stood there in the most shadowed corner of the stall. Lysander could only see one bitterly dark eye peering through its overgrown forelock.

Bing grunted. "That there be Bad Pony."

Lysander gave Bing a dubious glance.

Bing shot a loathing glance toward the stall. "I like a good pony, me. Nothin' better than a nice, friendly Dales pony. That's some foreign thing the doctor brought back after the war. He's a spiteful, bloody-minded beastie and fond o' bitin', so I'd be keeping your distance unless you care to lose a chunk out of your arse."

From the specific tinge of anger in Bing's voice, Lysander surmised that he was not speaking figuratively of the pony's temperament. It was a curious creature, to be sure, and brought a faint recollection to mind. Lysander let the hint of memory go without pursuing it. After all, his memories spent far too much time pursuing him.

He set to work mucking stalls after Bing moved the strange pony with the lure of grain and the added defense of a sturdy broom. He spread straw, scrubbed pails and filled several of them with cracked grains for the chickens. The amount of feed seemed excessive, but then, Lysander didn't know much about chickens. When Bing led him around the back of the stable and Lysander saw the vast array of coops lined up neatly as a field of regimental tents over nearly a full acre, he thought perhaps he should've tried to find another pail to fill.

Some of his astonishment must have shown his face, for Bing uttered a very ungentlemanly word. "Blasted chickens. I canna stand 'em. Me mum kept chickens and I never minded 'em one bit, but we've come on three years now that folk hereabouts have been paying t' Missus in nowt but chickens. She's too kindly to insist on hard coin, so it's chickens. And do you know what chickens do all day?"

Lysander had no idea but Bing stared at him expectantly. "Eggs?" he ventured hesitantly.