She prepared our meal with simple tools, in rudimentary fashion—a metal pan over a small fire, oyster shells for spoons, coconut husks for bowls. Mine was a feast worth more than I was: a leg of turkey stuffed with sage and thyme and dripping in gravy, freshly baked bread as if just from the ovens, and fish swimming in a tangy sauce made from chopped apples and glazed lemons. There was wine of the finest vintage from Tresea’s famed vineyards.

“I came prepared,” she said, smiling at my astonishment. “A merchant from a nearby town supplies my needs and asks no questions. In many places, money speaks louder than one’s beliefs. Did you think I would come here to forage for scraps when I have other skills at my disposal?”

In contrast, her meal was simpler: a glass of water, choice fruits and raw vegetables, and servings of sliced runeberries. “I never did acquire a taste for runeberry wine. I prefer to eat them raw.”

“These are not from Stranger’s Peak.” The runeberries that grew in that desolate region were smaller and rounder, like brown peaches. These were larger and paler in color.

“They’re from Murkwick. Have you heard of the place?”

“But, Mistress Tea, these runeberries are of a lesser quality than even asha apprentices are given to eat.”

“That’s true. But they remind me of my years spent as a novice in my asha-ka. I hated the acrid taste and yearned for the day I was old enough to take them in wine, as every proper asha did. But when I turned sixteen, I found the wine bland and disappointing. As terrible as the fruit was, I had grown used to the taste.”

She selected a large slice, lifted it to her lips, and bit down. She chewed briefly and closed her eyes.

“Sometimes it is good to remind ourselves how bitterness tastes.”