That's a sin, Wanda.

[Or frowned upon, at the very least. He's not sure any of the various religions centered around his Father ever got around to codifying the consequences of smacking an angel. Most believers wouldn't even consider it, and angels rarely hang around in slapping range.

From the lift in his tone, Michael evidently isn't taking the threat very seriously. Violence is an inherent part of disagreements between angels, but Wanda is not an angel.

He glances aside at her. He doesn't believe she isn't hungry, just like he doesn't believe she shouldn't be resting, but at the moment it's not worth the argument.]

Try to work up an appetite for later. It'll please Josie to feed you.

[The woman's never satisfied her hospitality has been accepted until her guest downs at least one sweet and a cup of tea. Michael disappoints her on the regular.

He turns his attention back to the road and raises an arm, pointing at a small stone cottage up ahead.]

There. You see the garden on the side? The bald patches are allegedly the work of a lost spriggan.