“What else is there to know?” he asked, knowing how talk of them had saddened her only the day before. Surely it was not the best of topics, most especially when he had only just now earned back her favour.
Her smile grew incredulous. “I would not let them hear you say that,” she warned. “They would be gravely insulted that you had nothing else to say about them.” She turned her head abruptly forward, and he did the same, at first thinking she had caught sight of some danger that he had missed. But her words clarified the action, cutting through him deep enough that he had to suppress the urge to groan. “Unless you do not want me to know of them,” she murmured, glancing down at her lantern a frown coming to her lips.
He much preferred her smiles.
What reason she might have conjured to explain his reticence must have been an absurd one if that was her conclusion. It was for her sake that he avoided the topic, and that reason only. He did not want to cause her pain—even now, he was considering stopping to tend to her hand, although he assured himself that if it bothered her overly much, she would ask for assistance.
He did not need to be the one delaying them even further, even if it was for her sake.
“That is not the reason,” he informed her, certain it was not his place to elaborate on his true thoughts. But he could give assurances all the same, and apparently they were necessary. “I come from a very humble family,” he explained, his thumb picking at the leather binding a sheathed blade to his forearm. “I am not certain you would find them terribly interesting.”
He was sure his sisters would be horrified to hear he thought their means humble, most especially Saryn since she insisted that she would be marrying very well, and he should not forget it.
But Grimult knew the reality of their farm much better than she. They managed as a family, but not much beyond. Their home was comfortable, but plain, whatever furnishings they possessed to soften and give warmth painstakingly crafted rather than purchased at one of the clan markets.
None would ever wear a colour as deep and vibrant as Penryn’s cloak, the dyes far too expensive. Their clothes were of earthier hues, well made and carefully mended when it came to it, but simple in cut and detail.
How did he explain that to the most important person in their whole world?
Penryn shook her head at his assertion, her eyes wide and truthful as she answered him. “I can promise you that I do,” she insisted. “And... and I appreciate you sharing them with me,” she continued, her voice a little lower, her eyes drifting down to her lantern again rather than to him.
He would not pretend to understand her reasoning, but there was not much else to speak out between them both, most especially if he was determined to allow her life amongst the sages to remain solely her own. Which he was. Even if curiosity burned hotly within him whenever she did or said anything particularly peculiar.
“There’s the garden to tend,” he began awkwardly. “But we start with the animals in the mornings.”
Penryn’s eyes lit up, and he readied himself to disappoint her. There was nothing very exciting about any of them, fond though he was of his favourites. “I had a book with all sorts in them. The descriptions were not always very good, but the pictures were my favourites to look at. What sorts do you have?”
He cleared his throat. “Four onclots for our milkers. I...” he paused, realising that he was not certain he was speaking accurately any longer. It was strange, when he knew it all so well only a few years before, yet now...
He swallowed. He would be a stranger on his own farm—his father’s farm. He would have to grow acquainted with any new births, would have to mourn any losses that occurred since he had been home.
The thought was a sobering one.
“Grimult?” Penryn asked, her voice soft with worry.
He shook his head, trying to clear it and the lump that had settled in his throat. “Apologies,” he got out, tightening his hand into a fist and releasing it again. A trick an instructor had taught him in order to refocus his thoughts and attention. “I just realised that much must have changed since I have been home. It was... disconcerting.”
Penryn nodded. “I am sure.”
There was something odd in her tone, something wistful that spoke of more than simple commiseration and agreement, but he did not know how to enquire as to her meaning. Not when he was too ashamed of his momentary lack of composure. “We had four onclots,” he tried again. “Although with so many seasons passed it is likely there are more now.” Probably nearly ready for their own births, for their little herd of milkers to grow—though no one could accuse an onclot of being little. Great horned beasts with far too much hair than was good for them. They would keep to the shade in heat like this, expecting their keepers to bring them piles of feed to eat in comfort rather than expose themselves to unrelenting sunlight.
How was his father managing alone?
Penryn was not asking such things to make him sad, he knew. But he realised how much he had avoided thinking of home in order to protect himself from the longing such dwellings incurred. “Three lamingots. Those are mostly for our own use, as we sell the onclot milks and cheeses at the market.”
He was particularly fond of the lams, with their floppy ears and knobby knees. They were troublesome to the extreme, always escaping, clever to a fault, and where went one, went all.
They
