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. "I'll gut it for
you," Woodrow offered, holding out his hand for the chicken. "If I
learned anything from my time as a squire, it was how to dress game."
Tas handed him the chicken. "I'll need a spit, too," he said to
Woodrow. After wiping his palms on the grass to remove the feathers,
Tas rinsed his hands with the clear water he'd set aside earlier.
Next, he drained the water from the bowl of beans. Tossing in a
handful each of fennel and sage, he stirred the mixture with his
hands.
Woodrow returned with the bird. "All clean and shiny and pink,"
he said, handing it over by the neck. Tas split the lemon in half and
rubbed what little juice there was over the chicken, inside and out.
Next he stuffed the bean mixture into the cavity of the bird while
Woodrow drove two sturdy, fork-shaped branches into the ground on
either side of the fire. Tas held the stuffed chicken up and Woodrow
ran a straight, thin stick through it from one end to the other.
Wordlessly, he set it on the two forked sticks with the chicken
centered over the glowing coals.
"Perfect," Tas sighed. He leaned back against a sturdy wagon
wheel and closed his eyes.
"I'll keep an eye on dinner," Woodrow offered, but he knew the
kender was already asleep. The human sat cross-legged before the fire,
absently staring into the red-hot coals.
Meanwhile, Gisella scampered barefoot up the slope toward the
light of the fire, stopping occasionally to pluck pine needles from
the tender pads of her feet
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