“Have you ever met a peaceable Brit?” Zechariah laughed. “Bastards, every one of them.”

Ugh. The rough ones made him swoon, too.

He looked at the carcass. Butchering was a noble trade, he supposed. Would his money dry up? Would he have to kill his own meat, too? Did that butcher ever get his, er, ‘her’ raunchy reply? Hopefully not.

“I can pick you some up next time I go to York,” Zechariah said. “Same rabbi who married you gave his blessing to the butcher down there.”

At Uriel’s question, Zechariah’s brows hiked up.

“This is a ‘94 Chardonnay. Belgian,” he added optimistically.

After a pause, he smiled and wrinkled his nose.

“Kosher.”

Translation: boiled.

He thanked Uriel for the sandwich, though seemed still lost in thought when he picked one half up.

“So, how has life been on the … outskirts, for you?”