A Good Prognosis
“What d’ye mean, I’m to have only soup?” Merry’s voice grew louder, and more shrill, with each passing moment. The young server was courteous, but growing increasingly distressed, and she welcomed the White Lady’s intervention with obvious relief.
“ ‘Light diet’, indeed. Can you imagine such a thing? How am I supposed to get better, if I don’t eat?”
Eowyn, who up until that moment had had no interest in eating whatsoever, lifted the linen napkin covering the tray. There was not only soup, tantalizingly scented of lemon and dill, but also flaky rolls dripping with honey butter and fruit-topped custard.
Quite surprisingly, her stomach growled.
Merry let out a roar of laughter. “See! You’re ready to eat too! But we must have more than just soup - that wouldn’t keep a flea alive. The idea!”
Ioreth, listening behind the door, hurried to spread the word that these patients were, clearly, recovering.