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Trusting against expectation that Sir Escart is right about this ghost wanting an acorn, you fish the acorn out of your pocket and put it on the ground between yourself and the ghost. "I hope you know what you're doing, Escart," you murmur, and brace yourself for a nasty fate.
The intensity of the cold wavers, and although it's still enough to make you shiver, the ghost's focus has shifted to the acorn. He speaks:
"Woe is me, woe is me.
The acorn's not yet fallen from the tree,
That's to grow the wood,
That's to build the cradle,
That's to rock the bairn,
That's to grow into the man,
To exorcise me."
Despite this rather unsatisfied sounding rhyme he fades away, and you dare to breathe again.
By this point, even Sir Escart dares to breathe a sigh of relief. "Well done, dungeoneer. I think there's an exit to the right."
Given that this is a kitchen, you decide to take the opportunity to feed yourself. A snow-covered loaf of bread sits on one of the surfaces so you pick it up, then knock it against the surface. It's frozen solid, just like everything else here. If you decide to accept it, you shrug and put it in your knapsack anyway. Return your Life Force to green.
You look around at the exit Sir Escart mentioned. He's right: it's the only exit from this place. You crunch your way over the snow-covered flagstones and leave, hoping to emerge somewhere warmer.