He can feel the birch-woman's amusement grow, like a mother indulging a child's playfulness. Against Cuthbert's light quickness, the birch-woman seems to move even more slowly, but her leaves rustle with a light breeze that spirals around Cuthbert's hat, carrying a few petals of some bloom unknown to Caspian with it. They swirl about the gunslinger's outstretched hand like a blessing.

It is good, sapling, she tells him, then turns her regard on them both. Speak your request.