Percy nods. "I won't even handle it, if you would prefer not. I'd just like to ... study it, if I might."

And study it he does, with an odd dreamy intensity, as they're eating their scanty-but-welcome dinner. There's no cup, only the little tin pot to both brew the tea in and drink from; they pass it hand to hand, holding it by the stubby pot-handle, alternating with the remains of the jar of buttermilk. Cassandra falls asleep sitting up, with the crust of her bread squashed in one hand, and very slowly slumps sideways against Crichton.