"I have a twelve-year-old village boy named Thomas in my life. I've become an expert on head injuries."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, drinking tea and watching through the window as the village prepared for evening. The sun was setting, painting everything in shades of gold and pink that made even the ridiculous decorations look magical.
"Three more days," Marianne said quietly.
"For what?"
"Until you leave. The fair is in two days, but you'll stay for it, won't you? Even if you've finished reviewing the ledgers?"
The question hung between them, loaded with more meaning than its simple words suggested.
"I should finish the list," Alaric said, which wasn't really an answer.
"Of course there is the pie contest to judge."
"Am I judging that?"
"You are now. You survived the poisoned pies this morning, so you're qualified."
"Those weren't poisoned."
"The ones you made were questionable."
"They were abstract."
"They were dangerous."
"Thomas ate one and survived."
"Thomas has an iron constitution. He once ate an entire jar of pickled onions on a dare."
"Why?"
"Because someone dared him. That's all the reason Thomas needs."
"I was never that adventurous as a child."
"No? What were you like?"
Alaric thought about it. "Serious. Watchful. My tutors called me grave."
"That's sad."
"It was accurate."
"It's sad that it was accurate. Children shouldn't be grave."
"Some children don't have a choice."
Marianne reached across the table and touched his hand lightly. "Well, you have a choice now."
"Do I?"
"You could choose to enjoy the next three days instead of enduring them."
"I don't know how to do that."
"You seemed to manage it today."
