The girls answer as they have been taught, names given politely enough, but their attention never truly leaves the horse. Their eyes track every flick of its ears, every slow shift of its weight.
Tassilo follows their gaze and smiles. “Would you like to sit with him?” he asks. “I promise he will stand still, so long as you are kind.”
Their agreement is immediate and breathless.
“What’s his name?” Ella asks.
“His name is Greyson,” Tassilo says, resting a hand against the stallion’s leg.
Thea frowns at that. “That is a strange name for a horse.”
Tassilo feigns offense.
“I chose it when I was a boy,” he says. “For the horse I meant to have one day. He was to be gray, and so Greyson seemed fitting enough.”
The girls dissolve into giggles, clearly satisfied by this reasoning.
At last, Tassilo rises to his feet. His gaze lifts to me, surprise giving way to open pleasure.
“My lady,” he says, inclining his head.
Tassilo lifts the girls onto the stallion’s back with ease.
“Greyson loves apples, but he can’t have too many of them, or he will get a stomachache,” he explains and offers an apple to the horse.
“I once had a stomachache,” Thea explains. “I had to drink a horrible tea and stay in bed all day, it was dreadful.” She scrunches up her nose in that adorable way she always does when something displeases her.
Tassilo laughs and turns to me.
“Would you care to walk together for a little while? Thegirls could ride along, I promise Greyson is trustworthy.”
I look over to Aileen, who seems to be just as enamored with the animal as the girls are.
“Sure, why not? If we are not keeping you from anything?” I ask.
“No, we have just been securing some fences along the property and were on our way back to the estate. It would be our pleasure to keep you lovely ladies company. Right, Brice?” He smiles cheekily at his commander, who nods solemnly, but does not give an outward reaction. We walk for another half an hour, the girls regaling the group with their stories of bad tummies and theories about what might give them a stomachache. Eating frogs, drinking from the old fountain, licking their inked feathers…the list is endless.
Tassilo listens to their chatter as if it matters—which, to them, it does—and when he suggests a picnic by the stream, they cheer as though he has offered them the moon.
I hesitate.
Tassilo looks to me then, his expression open, almost boyish. “We would be honored to share what little we have brought. Only if it pleases you,” he says. “I promise no schemes before supper.”
Against my better judgment, I agree.
The afternoon unfolds with alarming ease.
We eat bread and cheese, and Tassilo lets the girls braid flowers into his hair with exaggerated solemnity. Rowan lounges nearby, one arm resting casually on the pommel of his sword, watching the proceedings with open amusement even as his eyes never quite stop scanning the meadow.
“I see we’ve surrendered command. I’ll inform the men,” Brice says when Tassilo accepts a daisy crown.
Rowan snorts.
Tassilo grins. “They’ll follow you, Brice. You look frightening enough for both of us.”
“High praise,” Brice says deadpan. “I’ve been cultivating it for years.”
The girls giggle and announce that they’ll be making yet another flower crown—for Brice.
