"Thank you for a taste of home," he said sincerely. "Join me in one? And that I will pay for."

He'd directed the invitation to both of them. Brannigan shook his head. "Maybe later. Business to attend to," he said.

A little to Ingolf's surprise, Saba nodded. "I will… if we're not too busy, Dad?"

"Nope, it's a slow night, everyone's getting ready for tomorrow," Brannigan said.

Then he made a gesture, index and little finger out stretched, the middle two folded down under the thumb. "Or out defying the fae, the young idiots. See you later, Mr. Vogeler."

She returned with the platters and some cider of her own, and sat across from him. He grinned and clinked his glass mug against hers, happier still when he saw she meant to eat with him. The odd grace she said over the food didn't put him off; you expected to meet strange customs far from home, and nothing here was as weird-or as nasty-as what he'd seen in the Valley of Paradise among the Prophet's folk.

"Your health, Saba," he said.

"And yours, Ingolf. To the Lord, to the Lady, to the Luck of the Clan!"

He was hungry enough that even with a pretty woman smiling at him the plate was the first priority. Everything that went into the food was something he might have had at his family's board-roast pork with cracklin' gravy, potatoes, carrots and cauliflower and broccoli, applesauce on the side, brown bread and but ter. The details were different; the outer cuts of the pork were crusted with herbs, chopped dried cherries in the gravy, potatoes whipped creamy with dill and garlic and chives, the vegetables steamed rather than boiled, and a fruity red wine to go with it all when his cider was drained.

Wholly homelike was the wedge of apple pie with whipped cream, and a piece of yellow cheese beside it, sharp and dry and crumbly, just right to cut the rich sweetness of the pie filling and the buttery taste of the crust.