Mireille had not expected to be fed. She had come up the causeway with a Chancery cipher in her case and a list of questions in her head, and she had thought, at the wicket, that she would be asked to account for the Quiet Wing, and the Chancery’s arrest warrant, and the Lessary ledger that had been traced to her hand in the spring. She had not thought she would be handed a loaf.
The cook came out to the arch at noon with a cloth bundle under one arm. She was a broad, grey-haired woman with flour to the elbows and a face that had decided long ago not to be impressed by anything that came up the causeway, and she walked straight up to the King of Lessary, who was standing under the arch with his hat in one hand and his other hand flat against the cold stone, and she put the bundle into his palm.
“Eat that,” said Pell. “You have walked up my causeway with nothing in your stomach and a face like a man who has been sent to the wrong house for a wedding. I will not have a king leave the Hold hungry, however many times he has been wrong about it.”
