That is a horrible name. Lashan hopes it's something from some language she doesn't know that just sounds like the local word for entrails but she is afraid that it's not. Her eyebrows lift, which is all the comment she'll make, although she wants to tell the boy he can go by any name he wants. Unless she absolutely has to, she's not going to use it. The next oldest male in the compound is four, it will be obvious who she means if she says 'Boy'.

"Come back to the infirmary when you're done," she says, and leaves him to it, stumping back along to the business of arranging food to be brought outside of the refectory hall. He's not going to like how it feels if he gets soap into that shoulder wound, she reflects, and she doesn't actually know if no one else will come in while he's there, but... she doesn't want to hang around outside warning people off. Maybe that baffled gratitude will wear off and he'll be shirty again.

The food is plain fare with no meat and no dessert, though the pot of pease porridge is cooked with cow's blood to strengthen it, darken it, and give it a sweet tinge. There are a handful of boiled dumplings with onion and egg filling, and some unleavened bread. There's an enormous amount of the delicate, pungent leafy arugula that's coming in thick now, with a little oil over it. The whole thing can be eaten by hand or with the flatbread. To drink there's a pitcher of sweet-tart water with a bit of vinegar and honey and mint leaves in it. It's not quite a meal from the plains and it's not quite a local one. The enclave is a particular little subculture.

Lashan considers calling over Vena to see about blackberries. No. No! Don't be absurd. She's just getting hungry.