[In truth there's a great deal to be said for the fact that he does truly taste the sweetness of the tart, the butteriness of the pastry, the nuttiness of the filling. The first time Rip had eaten after his family died--truly, not just in some replication provided by Wonderland--it had all been dry, thick, bland.

He can still feel hunger, whetted by the first swallow of food. The relief of warm tea, the bit of strength regained after even a fitful and brief sleep.

Strange how time's healing measures still show their force, even in limited ways.]

I suppose I should thank you for that, then. [Sparing him the efforts of her cooking. Seems an odd thing to show gratitude for, but--]

Miranda would experiment with cooking sometimes. [He looks towards the door, swallows. Doesn't matter that he's still drinking the tea. His throat's gone dry again.] She'd want to have something special when I was home.