"I don't think fish work like that," Cullen says, and eases himself up.

The fire's nearly burned down enough; Cullen feeds it just a little more before sitting on the dock again. Four fat trout fall prey to Alistair's hard work with the bait; Cullen digs a little salt out of his pack, and picks some woodsorrel for the sharp, sour taste.

He does rather look abominably smug as he pokes at the gutted fish with his knife; they're cooking directly on the coals, skin and all.