He knows too well that the way he's put it invites more questions than it answers, but there's naught to be done about it. "Thank you," he says, simple and sincere. (It's almost tempting to add 'I might,' but that feels a lie when he's nearly certain he never will speak to her on it. Not about this.)

It's likewise tempting to turn down her offer of a break--there's a reason he's been avoiding food and drink laid out for them and with it the possibility of another unfortunate encounter. But he knows his own limits well enough to know he's pushing them, flirting with dehydration and sun-sickness in a way that Enchanter Philomela would've boxed his ears for. Making himself ill out of spite and anger and childish hurt does no one any good.

"I'd like that. And maybe you can tell me a little about what we've been gathering this whole time; I don't know all these southern flowers." There. Polite and with a built-in topic for conversation that avoids anything dangerous.