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Jamie is . . . getting twitchy.

Beyond that door somewhere is his Home. It's close. He knows it. But he needs Joris to get there, and Joris - and Helen - aren't ready to leave yet.

And Jamie isn't ready to tell them about his hopes of getting Home soon.

So there they are.

In an attempt to stave off twitchiness, Jamie's doing his best to fill his time with as many activities as possible. Today it's toasting marshmallows in the fireplace. It's fun to see the rats make faces as the goo drips!

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"I'm surprised you've got dessert, to be honest. I reckoned your people would count it a sinful indulgence or something."

(Really he'd be surprised to hear Helen's world had anything pleasant. At all.)

He offers her the now-cooled stick. "Want one?"

"Why would we?"

...she ducks her head and tucks a good half of hair behind her ear to give it a proper look, before carefully tugging the first of the marshmallows off.

She examines it a bit more, then eats it with all of the dignity one can with a melty marshmallow.

"It's not bad," Helen concedes.

Jamie diplomatically decides not to answer the first question.

"It's the only good thing about campfires. That, and toasted sausages."

Well, and not freezing your fingers off in the middle of the woods, but that's a given.

Or the middle of the desert.

Helen nods, and glares at her fingers which are still covered with sticky residue.

"You can lick your fingers after," Jamie says, helpfully.

"When you're camping out you don't tend to be terribly well-stocked with napkins and civilized refinements. You'll have to be prepared for that."

"I don't think licking will get all of it off," Helen replies, wishing briefly that she'd been able to bring her knife with her when she was exiled. "A rock or something sharp would pull it off easier."

Jamie shrugs. "So rub your hand on the floor, once you're done."

The cleaning staff won't be happy . . . but the cleaning staff can deal!

...

This is a Look.

FYI.

"You can't be so picky about things, once we're out of here," Jamie tells her. "We're probably going to have to rough it a bit before we're through. You've been lucky so far."

"I don't need to clean my hands on floors," Helen informs him, stiffly dignified. "I will clean them on the edge of something else if I've got to."

Jamie rolls his eyes, a little, but he's grinning.

"Right now, there's also the option of just going to wash them in the privy."

Helen's chin sets, and her gaze narrows.

And then, back stiff, she goes to do so. But she is not giving in to anything.

She is totally winning this conversation.

Really.

You just go on telling yourself that, Helen.

Jamie eats a marshmallow off his stick. Smugly.

When Helen returns, she has a small bowl of marshmallows, a marshmallow stick, and several disposable wipes. She tosses a packet of the last to Jamie as she sits down.

DISPOSABLE WIPES ARE FOR SISSIES.

Jamie picks his packet up by the fingertips, squints at it, and puts it back down.

"My marshmallows aren't good enough for you, I suppose," he says, mock-injured.

"I wanted to see how to do it," Helen informs him. "And I don't think you want me destroying yours until I get skilled at it."

Jamie does not mention the destruction he has already wrought on several of his own marshmallows.

"There's not much skill needed," he says instead. "It's the easiest sort of cookery - put something in the fire and watch what happens."

Helen thinks, vaguely, that this might be an insult. So that when she fails at managing it he can cite the statement.

"Yes. If you know what to watch for."

She puts a few marshmallows on her stick.

". . . it turns brown," Jamie says. Patiently. "Like things do, when they're toasted. Haven't you ever cooked anything?"

"I knew that!" Helen snaps. "Just not how brown. Somethings are not cooked through when they go dark and some are when they are barely!"

Jamie smiles at her, and explains, very gently, "It's a matter of personal taste. It can be any level of brown you like."

"They're safe to eat raw?" Helen asks, though her chin stiffens and she lets her hair fall into her face as she holds her marshmallows out carefully over the fire.

Hatred, Jamie. Hatred and loathing.

"Perfectly safe. They're only made of sugar really. Lots of people do eat them raw."

Jamie feels that this particular conversational (and culinary) battle, he is winning!

Probably.

Wait, no, Helen never loses. Shut up. Instead she focuses (dignified and winningly) on her marshmallow stick, rotating it now and then.

Wins are rare enough for Jamie that he is very much savoring this one.

"You're doing very well," he says, with kindly encouragement.