He did not respond, but wrestled with the fastenings until the bedrolls came free.
“You don’t have a tent?”
“I wasn’t anticipating the rain.”
“I thought you anticipated everything.”
This didn’t improve his foul mood. He shook out the blankets and spread them on the ground with pointed precision, then laid the bedrolls on top.
“Feel free to assist me at any time,” he grunted.
“You’re doing a marvelous job. I’d hate to interrupt.”
But when a vein in his temple started to pulse, I dropped my posture of detached interest and went over to help. We lashed a blanket as best we could between two boughs, creating a rudimentary roof over the bedrolls, and sat beneath it to escape the drizzle—light by now, but cold and needle-sharp. Fane crowded her front end under the shelter with us and started nibbling at a clover patch.
“Hello?” came an uncertain voice from the direction of the road. I looked up to see a woman huddled with a large basket and two young girls, all three of them under one cloak. She kept her arms protectively around her daughters, but gave us a half smile, as if gauging our friendliness.
“You go to her,” said Patrick. “I think they’ll be more comfortable.”
“You just want to stay under the blanket,” I grumbled, but got up and went over to them.
“Forgive us for startling you,” said the woman softly. “We do not mean any harm. We are travelers on this road.”
The little girls buried their faces in their mother’s side.
“Are you all right?” I asked. “Where are you all going? Here, let me help you.” I took the basket from the woman’s arm and ushered them all under our makeshift shelter. It was cramped, and we had to sit shoulder to shoulder, but we all managed to fit. The rain seemed to be easing off, too, and I hoped it would stop before long.
“Thank you,” said the woman breathlessly when she had settled in and nestled her two children close by her sides. “I didn’t know what we were going to do.”
“You are very welcome,” said Patrick. “I am Patrick, and this is Netta.”
“My name is Gisane, my lord.”
His face softened as he talked to the children. “And what are your names, young ladies?”
“Answer the man,” coaxed their mother. “Don’t be shy.”
The younger sniffled, but did not speak. The older one, still clutching tight to her mother’s skirts, whispered “Lina.”
Patrick swept a low bow, as if meeting a princess. Lina giggled.
“Lady Lina,” he said gravely. “It is an honor. And you, little one?”
The smaller girl mumbled something.
“Speak up,” urged her mother.
“Mari, my lord,” she said in a tiny voice.
“Lady Mari.” Patrick bowed again. “Pardon me, there seems to be something … May I?”
He reached towards her ear. She flinched and shrank away, but his hand reemerged with a copper coin.
“Very wise, to hide your riches thus,” he said to her, holding out the coin. Lina giggled. Mari smiled despite herself, taking the coin in her chubby fist. Patrick repeated the trick for Lina and then, with a theatrical flourish, produced a sprig of wildflowers from behind his back and presented it to the girls. I watched as the girls laughed delightedly, a smile tugging at my own lips.
“You’re very good at that,” I said quietly while the girls exclaimed over the flowers.
Patrick smiled crookedly. “A misspent boyhood, I’m afraid. And a lonely one.” The girls showed no trace of shyness now, as they clamored for more magic. Their mother shook her head, smiling.
