She ushered them toward a small table near the hearth, where a fire crackled merrily. Upon the table waited fresh eggs, thickslices of bacon, warm rolls wrapped in linen, and a small dish of honey that caught the light.
Hazel’s eyes widened. “This is far too kind.”
“Nonsense,” the innkeeper said briskly. “A house is dull without company. Sit, sit.”
As they did, she gestured around the room. “I’ve stoked the fire well, seeing as the rain’s set in for the day. There are books on the shelf there, nothing fancy, mind you, and cards in the drawer if you fancy a game.”
Greyson inclined his head politely. “You have anticipated every comfort.”
The woman beamed. “I’ve been at this long enough to know when folk wish to be left cozy.”
She left them then, humming softly to herself.
They ate slowly, savoring both the breakfast and the unhurried luxury of it. Hazel buttered a roll and passed it to Greyson. He poured her tea without asking, already knowing how she took it. The fire crackled companionably nearby, and outside, the rain continued its steady insistence, as though pleased with itself.
When the dishes were cleared away at last, Hazel glanced toward the shelf the innkeeper had indicated. “Would you read to me?”
Greyson arched a brow. “Readtoyou?”
“Yes,” she said, entirely unapologetic. “You have a fine voice. And I enjoy correcting you.”
A slow smile curved his mouth. “Ah, then I see the appeal.”
He rose and selected a worn volume, returning with it tucked beneath his arm. “This seems appropriate.” He settled into the chair beside the fire and opened to a marked page. “The Pilgrim’s Progress.”
Hazel curled onto the settee opposite him, tucking her feet beneath her skirts. “A classic. Do try not to turn it into a tragedy.”
He cleared his throat and began, his tone solemn to the point of absurdity. “‘Now I saw in my dream, that the man began to run?—’”
Hazel interrupted at once. “Greyson, if you read it as though everyone is perpetually on the brink of doom, even the children will flee the allegory.”
He paused, feigning offense. “Itisan allegory.”
“Yes,” she said dryly, “not a funeral procession.”
He resumed, this time with exaggerated cheer. “‘…leaving his wife and children behind, who called after him?—’”
“Do not skip that,” Hazel said quickly. “That is the important part.”
He glanced up. “The children?”
“All of it,” she replied. “Hope, responsibility, consequence. You have rushed headlong past the family every time.”
Greyson smiled faintly and read the passage again, slower now. When he reached a line describing the children’s voices, he faltered deliberately and misread it with great seriousness.
“And the children cried, Father, Father, bring us biscuits.”
Hazel burst out laughing. “That isnotwhat it says.”
“It is heavily implied,” he countered gravely.
She shook her head, laughter lingering. “You are incorrigible.”
“And you,” he glanced at her mischievously, “are very distracting.”
The book rested forgotten in his hands as the fire shifted and settled. Rain continued its gentle insistence against the windows, enclosing them in a world small enough to feel safe.
Hazel folded her hands in her lap. “If I am to be accused,” she said lightly, “I should like to know the charge.”
