Pocket made a point of not looking away. “The Mumb-,” the frown spread to the other half of her face. “Master Bannoch, did not say I was to.” The thumb and index finger of his left hand toyed idly with the opposite finger. “They only bring in more bugs to eat at the hangings anyways.”

Moragh turned back to one of her colossal ovens, taking up a long, flat, wooden paddle and retrieved several loaves of swollen bread. “He is yours to deal with, then. I’ll not step in for you again.”

“Yes, Moragh,” Pocket said, knowing the Mumbler would be too busy today to catch the oversight. Pocket’s finger drifted up to dig some of the sharp grit from his nose.

“Here now!” Moragh’s reproach was quickly followed by a well-placed snap of a rag, whipping the offending digit. “None of that!” She handed the rag over so that he could blow his nose and went back to her loaves.

With a long practiced jerk, Moragh slid the bread neatly off the paddle onto the cooling rack and turned back to him, her cheeks ruddy from the fire. “Have you eaten?” she asked, a meaty fist punching into her sizable hip. She pushed air out from between her lips causing them to flap rapidly and shook her head before Pocket could answer. “Child, child.”

Pocket smiled. She always called him that, even though she had named him not long after he learned to walk, claiming he was always in her apron pocket. Reaching up, she snatched a sausage hanging from the rafters of the low ceiling. She then took out a long knife and cut a thick hunk from one of the loaves she had just removed from the oven, buttering it thickly with a single swipe.

“This for now, while it is still warm,” she instructed, handing the bread over. “And this for later.” She pressed the sausage into his hand. Finally she pushed her way to the opposite wall, weaving through the press of kitchen servants with the ease of long practice. There she opened a wooden hatch, revealing a series of shelves exposed to the chill winds that always blew in the highlands surrounding the castle. From this special larder she grabbed a sizable clay jug and, shutting the hatch once more, made her way back. She handed it over as well. “Enough to share. But mind you bring me back the jug.”

“I will,” Pocket told her through a mouthful of moist bread. He looked beyond her and saw the other kitchen staff casting quick, disapproving looks in their direction. Some of them landed on Moragh’s back, but most were meant for him directly. “Moragh,” he said quietly, causing her to lean down to his eye level. “They are all angry at us again. Maybe you should take these back.” He held up the jug and sausage.