"Hang me if I know," he snorts. "Do I look like a baker? Honey, I suppose. Ginger? Spices." He shrugs elegantly, then picks up one of his own and dips it into a mug of maple mead before taking a bite. He gives a grunt of pure pleasure - yes, that's the right way to eat these.

"There are Barrayaran treats with more elegance, I fancy," he says. "Macarons and tortes napoleons and pot a creme - but for sheer rustic pleasure, nothing can compare to these. It tastes like childhood." He dips it again in alcohol and nibbles, closing his eyes in enjoyment of it.