"They're sweeter once you cook them," Ned points out, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile at the face Meyer makes. "If you stick around long enough you can try them in the pie, see if you like it any better." Once more, Ned doesn't think twice about offering Meyer the fruits of his labor. Giving people pie is just what Ned does. It's the most natural thing, to him.

Ned considers this question as he rolls out the dough, lays it in the tin and begins to trim the edges. "I think that depends on the person eating the pie. If your favorite is apple, I'm best at apple, and if your favorite is peach, I'm best at peach." He could never choose a single flavor of pie above others. That would be absurd. Pie is pie; it's all wonderful, each flavor in its own unique way. Never underestimate Ned's capacity for sentimentality, when pie is involved.

"It's definitely more useful. Can't think of a single thing I learned in boarding school that actually proved useful." That isn't precisely true, of course. He'd learned plenty of useful things: how to hide from bullies. How to hide bruises. How to keep his head down. How to talk his way out of trouble. How to lie. How the world worked. It's just that none of those lessons were the official kind.

He sets about fluting the edges of the crust, asks, "What about you? What did you do, before all this?"