She was cooking. It wasn't a common activity for her, not for king's kin. Brew mead, make cheese, churn butter, help with the harvest, yes. But before Darrow, she had rarely had to make a meal for herself. Now it was a comfort, a way to fill time that might otherwise be consumed with sorrow and worry for a lost friend. Hild could think back to watching the bakers kneed their bread, the cooks choose their spices and when to add them, and mimic their familiar actions.

The simmering stew filled her apartment with warmth and a savory smell that mingled with the usual earthy scent of dried flowers and roots. It was a good, comforting smell, a reassuring warmth. It made her feel that much more welcoming when she answered her door.

"Gannicus." She had a ready, delighted smile for him, pleasure from his unexpected visit obvious. It did not fade even when she noted, in a glance, the drying blood, the ripening bruises, the way he favored his shoulder. "What is all this from?"