"Are they magic boxes?" Bert had to ask, peering at the mikro-whatsit. "There's a lot of magic here. More'n back in Gilead, and we had wizards a'plenty. Most of them right bastards, too. Or are they Ancient's machines?"
Other than the war machines that Farson commanded, the machines of the Ancients were only preserved in stories. But he imagined if they could make carts that pulled themselves and buildings of metal, they could make shiny boxes that cooked food without poisoning the air.
"And I'm not sure I understand your question. It was 39 generations after the death of the great King Arthur - my ancestry goes all the way back to his court, say true. During the war against the Good Man. Guess that's over now, though, since we lost Jericho Hill."
And what had become of Gilead? Were the servants of the Red crawling through the halls of the palace even now? And who sat on the throne? Farson? Flagg? Broadcloak the traitorous bastard himself?
"Cry pardon, I was woolgathering a bit there. Is this really a machine that will toast your bread for you?" As quickly as his smile had faded with dark thoughts it was back, as though the concept of a toasting machine was the most amazing thing he'd ever heard of. He busied himself with poking about the amazing kitchen, looking for the rest of what he needed for a proper popkin.