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and the manners of a princess forgotten in a sudden desperate hunger. “Here . . . don’t eat so fast. Your stomach’s not used to food. You’ll cast it all up again.”
The books Keilin had devoured in the library had led him to dream of caring and nurturing a delicate damsel, who would fall into his arms with gratitude afterwards. His experiences with his mother after she’d been on a three-day dream-dust binge stood him in better stead with the reality that followed. When Shael had stumbled up and rushed towards the bushes, he’d followed, held her head and rubbed her back. When she’d finished he handed her a leather water skin. She eyed it suspiciously. Keilin could see her hands were shaking on the flask neck. “Just water. Rinse your mouth out.”
When she’d done that, he led her back to the fire, and put her blanket over her thin, shivering shoulders. He put more wood on the fire, took a small pot from his kit, and began shaving dried meat into it. He added water and set it in the flames. “How long,” he asked conversationally, “since you last ate?”
The damsel in distress was showing scant signs of appreciation. In fact the hostile, shaky voice suggested that she planned to blame the whole of the indignity and discomfort on him. “I don’t see what it has got do with you.” Then she apparently thought better of it. “I’ve had