"That's cheerful! Sand, forgive me if I seem brutal, but do you know I believe the cooking up here is giving me indigestion. I wouldn't mind this if I didn't have your anatomy in mind, too. Those—what do you call them?"
"Ash cakes?"
"Yes. They were, to put it mildly, damnable."
Sandy laughed.
"They were right ashy," he admitted. "Sally is old and careless."
"She'll murder you, if you don't look out."
Sandy kicked a log farther back on the hearth and the room was filled with rosy light and warmth.
"Your father doesn't seem particularly drawn to me, Sand. Does he always retire to his chamber as soon as he has finished his—his evening meal? Somehow it looks pointed!"
Lans was not his usual, sunny self. The rising storm, his own thoughts, and the evil ash cakes were having their way with him.
"I never question father, Lans. He is old. I want him to do exactly as he chooses. You must not take offence."