The door creaks. He stumps it open, backing into the room with hands full of tray. A list tucks just out his pocket: Dandelion root, dates, acorn flour, linden,

"I'll beg one off Mobius."

Good for the old man to keep busy. Another time, maybe that'd do for this too. Chantry's no stranger to the comfort in a task. But Cedric's dug enough ditches to know that's got limits, to work a shovel six feet over your head. She's clean, she's tidy, and she's about to step out her own skin. Busy's not the problem.

He takes his time laying out mug, napkin, spoon. Clean. Tidy. He lets her fuss. Tries to think what Barrow’s done for him, only that thinking on that makes him think why Barrow had to, and that don't bear thinking at all. Eventually, stone scuffs under foot, slow and steady and purposefully loud. A palm at her elbow, gentle,

"C'mon. It'll get cold."