Myrika's attention remained carefully focused on the bird carcass. She popped the strip of meat she'd torn from the bone into her mouth, savoring its taste. She did enjoy the fire-cooked meats, true enough, but she could so rarely be bothered to cook for herself. It was a good change of pace to be cooked for, and Myrika suddenly felt a jolt of irrational fear jerk through her. Maybe Ezekiel would never speak to her again, let alone cook for her -- maybe he'd throw her right out of Inferni. She could not tell, looking at the silent man. He gazed into the distance or into the fire, the rusty hybrid could not tell, and she dared not do more than throw the occasional fleeting glance toward him. For a long time, the only sound was that of the fire's crepitation.
At long last, the moment of apprehension passed, and he spoke again. To her relief, it was not an admonishment. Instead, he admitted she was right, and Myrika hadn't the faintest idea how to react to this. She regarded him cautiously, puzzlement faintly apparent on her face. She did not press about his travels -- instead, she answered his question after a moment, her own voice low and hesitant. It was... well. It was good, I guess. My dad raised me and my sister, and we were close. I learned a lot about horses and livestock by bugging the adults, you know? I never much liked hanging around the kids, though. They weren't so nice, she admitted, the most succinct truth about Thornloe she could give. Her father was the best part of it; the rest wasn't so important.