"You've fed me quite well already," she says. "But if you're willing to part with a little bread, and let me fill my waterskin...?"

"We've got bread." Seizing upon the distraction, Alistair's out of his seat and moving toward the small counter near the stove. For an ungracious moment, he considers foisting one of his failed bread experiments on Fiona, but -- no, there's half a loaf made by an actual baker he can wrap up for the journey. They can buy more tomorrow.

They still need Fiona's help, and that means Alistair still has to play nice despite the tiny coal of resentment burning in the pit of his belly.