Tristan crept down to the kitchen, Mor close behind him.

"Why are we sneaking?" Mor hissed, nearly tripping down the stairs and grabbing at Tristan's cloak to steady himself, "What kind of prince creeps around his own castle to steal his own food? Hello?"

"The kind that doesn't want to chew on poison," Tristan replied stonily.

"You still— You know, I've never met anyone as stubborn as you."

Tristan stopped at the door. He pressed an ear against it, listening for the telltale rustling and clinking of pans and the bored chatter of the servants. It was silent. He looked back at Mor, whose face was twisted in a cross between amusement and incredulity.

"Likewise," Tristan replied. Mor's eyes crinkled as he smiled and puffed up, proud for some reason. The corners of Tristan's mouth twitched, but he turned away before Mor could see. He opened the door.

The room was not empty. It was warm and dark despite a small fire that had been lit in the hearth, casting a dim, orange glow that only just illuminated a woman sitting hunched at the table in the middle of the room, a wooden mug of something steaming between her hands.

Tristan froze, caught out, but Mor exclaimed in happy surprise and stepped out from behind him.

"Oh, Nest!" Mor cried far too casually, striding over to the table and plopping down beside her, "What are you doing up so late?"

"Not late," she replied, smiling, in a voice so small it was nearly inaudible, "I only got up a little earlier than usual."

He really did have the entire Tower charmed, didn't he?

Nest's eyes found Tristan's, and she looked as guilty as he did.

"I like to come here, sometimes. It...it reminds me of home."

Mor nodded kindly.

"It's not as bleak as the rest of the Tower, is it? Nest and I grew up in the same village, my Lord," he told Tristan, "Our mothers knew each other. Isn't that a funny thing? Why, I remember when you were born, little Nest."

She blushed and looked down, smiling and shy. She looked so very young.

"Well…our Lord here has missed his supper, actually," Mor continued. And every meal around it, for how long now?

"Oh!" Nest brightened, full of an energy Tristan hadn't known she was capable of, "I can prepare something for you—I remember how—"

"I—no, it's…." Tristan stammered, his blood rushing through his ears. It would be so easy, so easy to just slip a sprig of nightshade in the wine, crush it like another herb into the pottage—

"We can help," Mor interrupted, "Right, Tristan? He hasn't had much of an appetite lately, you see. I suggested that if perhaps a little of his own handiwork went into his meal, he might appreciate it more. Perhaps you could help us make something simple for him?"

"No appetite?" Nest worried, "That won't do, in the winter!"

Suddenly the tiny woman Tristan knew to barely move was a hummingbird, flitting around the kitchen and pulling things down from their shelves with a familiarity that suggested she didn't just come here to enjoy the atmosphere. Mor immediately fell into line, taking up the tasks like it was second nature to him, while Tristan stared dumbly from where he was still frozen in the doorway.

"Here, ah, T-Tristan?" Nest addressed Tristan directly for the first time as she reached up to the dried herbs hanging from twine above the table, "I'll have you two prepare a pottage. It's simple enough. Cut these up finely, then combine them with the peas in this pot here with a little water and salt, you see?"

Mor nodded and rolled up his sleeves. After hesitating for a moment, Tristan pushed his up as well, finally stepping forward and closing the door behind him. He waited for Nest to turn her back to them before discreetly sniffing at his respective handful of herbs: sage, thyme, rosemary.

The tension he didn't know he was holding in his shoulders drained away, and Mor smiled at him.

As the morning light filtered into the kitchen, they dutifully chopped their respective handfuls of herbs and mixed them into a pot with the peas. Mor stirred it as it cooked down, and they watched like children as Nest dressed a small hen with leeks, setting it into the oven to roast.

When the pottage was done, Mor took it off the coals. He tore a rag in half, handing one to Tristan, and they scrubbed down the little table the best they could as they waited for the hen to finish. Mor's side of the table came away a little shinier.

Nest set one of the loaves from the day before with a generous pat of butter, as well as a bit of cheese and a handful of dried figs, and two steaming goblets of spiced wine. Finally, the hen was done, and it came out of the hearth glistening and honey-colored.

"Thank you," Tristan told Nest genuinely as she wiped her hands. She didn't seem to know exactly what to say, but she was happy, bobbing her head in acknowledgment. "If…if you could not tell—"

"You have my word, Tristan," Nest said, "Ah. I have to go, now. I—"

Mor nodded and smirked.

"Thank you, Nest. Tell Bran good morning, for me, won't you?"

He winked at her, and she blushed. She ducked her head, hiding another smile, and hurried away. The door closed softly behind her.