Inayat

Arenborn knocked on the door struggling to hide his broad smile. How long had it been? Three months? Four? It felt like it had been far longer. His fingers curled around the small bouquet of flowers he had picked on his way through their little village and he took a deep breath.

I been making myself feel all right about the fact that I can't go back and live in the Mark no more, by thinking of how I'm in a life I chose, and a life where everything goes right on account it's what I chose. It's like I'm the hero of a minstrel's tale; once I chose it, it's like it's fate, so everything got to keep going right with it. But this ain't no minstrel's tale, and I ain't no hero, and things go wrong, very wrong. Sometimes when something's too good to be true, it's too good to be true.

It's near on two weeks since I thunk as we were about to start on our journey, and I'd made arrangements for Miss Inayat to take care of the stable, but here I am still in Hookworth, up on the stable roof, watching spring-melt drip down the hillsides. There's hardly any snow left even on the highest hills now, and the grass is starting to green up. Was a big rainstorm few days ago with wind blew branches off the trees.

There's a little bit of good news, two things actually, but I feel almost too tired to celebrate them.

The roots weren’t very deep for the weeds in the garden. Sareva didn’t give them time to take hold, vigilantly tending the lavender she’d planted that spring. Keeping busy, it was what she needed, what she always did, especially in times like these. Otherwise…

    The day after I had written about the last events had been fruitful in a way.