So instead she pressed closer, the other talk seeming too close to what would come the next day, all tangled up together with traditions and history better left for clear heads and rested minds. “I am quite unharmed,” she promised him, but she allowed her injured wrist to fall away from him, holding it up for him to see, covered though it was by fabric. “They brought a healer, and he took your bandages and replaced them with his own. I did not much care for that.”
Grimult shifted, wanting to inspect for himself, but when he tried to manipulate the fabric up so he could see, it proved uncooperative, too stiff and finely woven to allow for such a stretch.
“Turn around,” Grimult instructed, and Penryn did not hesitate to comply, not if it meant she would soon be situated in her shift and warm stockings, the last stitch of crimson stripped away from her.
He took some moments to inspect the lacings and hooks, trying to make some sense of their construction, and Penryn grew frustrated. “I would remind you that I was willing to cut it off. I do not mind if you would rather be the one to do it.” Mara would be doubtlessly hurt if she ever learned of that, but at least Grimult would merely be snipping the lacing rather than the whole front of the gown as Penryn would have done.
“And risk nicking your skin? I think not.”
Then his fingers were there, pulling and tugging, at one point seeming only to manage to make the dress cinch tighter, her breathing hindered, but then they were loosening, and she was forced to catch the front lest it make a very fine puddle on the floor.
Her relief overwhelmed any feeling of embarrassment, and she turned quickly and kissed him on the cheek before darting toward the wardrobe in search of something suitable. Something plain, and comfortable, and warm for when the fire dimmed...
Satisfied with her choice of a linen shift in the colour of the thickest cream, she tugged the sleeve off of her bandages and slipped into her new garment. Then haphazardly folded the red gown with a semblance of care and tucked it into the lowest portion of the wardrobe. A knitted shawl, so large that it was nearly a blanket, offered a sense of modesty when she tied it about her shoulders, and finally the too-fine slippers were exchanged for plush stockings, just as she had been hoping for all day long.
Grimult had his back to her, his attention solely focused on the tea, swirling a spoon rhythmically first one way, then the other. It took her a moment to realise he was attempting to give her privacy in a dwelling not intended for such things, and she called out to him. “I am decent again,” she promised, although it seemed a little strange to have a care for such things when she had been able to coax him into a heated spring for a bath, and there had been far more skin on display then.
She still needed to find a comb to tend her hair, but that could wait until after they had shared her tea.
And maybe, if she was brave enough to broach the subject, hear some of what had filled Grimult’s days since their parting.
The cottage itself was clearly meant for solitude. There was a single low table, enough for a lone plate and cup, next to a plush chair, high backed and tufted. It would hardly accommodate Grim in any case, and she pushed it closer to the fire, so they could sit beside one another. He seemed to understand her intent without her saying anything and picked up the table with ease, settling it between the two chairs before he placed two steaming mugs on top and settled into his own seat, spreading his wings over the back once more. He still did not appear wholly comfortable, but perhaps the tension would ease out of them with something warm to drink and more time with a cheery blaze. Penryn took hold of her own mug and took a careful sip. He had sweetened it somehow, and while the herbs were unfamiliar on her tongue, she found that she liked the taste very much.
She saw the error in her arrangement as Grimult stared pensively into the fire rather than look at her, and she did not like the distance between them. It would have been rude to assume she was welcome on his lap without explicit invitation, but already she found that she missed it, regardless of the chair being cramped and unaccommodating.
So she settled for placing her hand on the tabletop, palm upward, wishing that it would simply heal so she could have full use of it again.
That he could take her hand in his and just... be.
But upon seeing the movement, he seemed to believe she was open to his earlier desire to inspect what the healer had done, settling down his mug and shifting so he could look at it fully. She made no sound of her disappointment, having merely wanted the contact with him and not an examination, but if he felt he needed to ensure she had been taken care of, then she would not deny him. His eyes furrowed at the colour of the cloth, and she did not bother to suppress the rolling of her eyes. “Evidently they believe that everything for a Lightkeep should be red.”
“Ah,” Grimult answered in understanding, glancing at her briefly. “You do not seem to enjoy their insistence.”
Penryn’s lips thinned. “I only had to wear it for special occasions before,” she explained, finding this part was not so difficult to share as there was no accompanying panic that she would reveal too much, that she was uncovering secrets that were never meant to be shared. “I was hardly seen otherwise, so it did not matter the colour. So I
