During the washing up—a chore that included hauling in water from the well—she asked about Sedric. She’d realized during the baking time he’d gone south.
“Are you worried for Sedric?”
“Where there’s love, there’s worry. Worry walks hand in hand with joy on love’s path, I think. He’s where he’s needed. As am I,” she added with a brush of her hand on Breen’s shoulder.
“Would you be in the south if it wasn’t for me?”
“Ah, but there is you, mo stór, and if there wasn’t, we might not know to be in the south at the ready. So the question’s a circle that has countless answers on its ring.”
Marg dried her hands, gave a nod to the tidy state of her kitchen. “Now that’s done, we’ll take our fine work up to the farm, but set by a round of the bread for Sedric on his return.”
Breen carried the pot of soup by its handle, and Marg the pie and bread in a basket.
Leaves scuttled across the road, colorful children whisked by the wind. Overhead, dragons glided, with rider and riderless. Breen saw actual children, the group of friends she thought of as the Gang of Six, race across a field toward the bay. Because she felt Bollocks’s longing, she glanced down.
“Go on and play awhile.”
When he raced off, she laughed. “It’s a tough call which he wants more, the kids or a swim.”
“And so he’ll have both. And how’s the new book on our boy there going?”
“Pretty well. I’m going back to it in the morning as a kind of palate cleanser. I’ve been working on the adult novel, and wrote a really violent battle scene. I’m taking a break from that and switching to the fun.”
“Isn’t it a gift you have both in you?”
“I’m surprised and grateful for it every day. And for the cottage, Nan, where I can write, and Marco can work. This time last year, I got up every morning to go to a job I never wanted because I thought, I really believed, I had no choice. Now? I get up every morning to do work I love, and it’s my choice. I know I have more to make.”
“And so you will.”
“I will. Just like I’m choosing to let Keegan push, kick, and shove me through another session of training.” She sent Marg the side-eye. “Not the favorite part of my day.”
“Well now, getting through it makes the good parts that much brighter.”
“I’ll try to remember that when he kills me half a dozen times. Still, I really enjoyed meeting the Trolls, and the views on the mountain—I’ll never forget. I know I couldn’t have done it unless he’d taught me to ride, and pushed me hard. I saw you riding your dragon. I won’t forget that either. How magnificent you looked.”
“Aren’t you the one?”
“Can I go up with you sometime?”
“Well and of course you can. Ah, I see Keegan’s setting up a target. So it’s the bow for you today.”
She looked over, saw Keegan in a field putting a target on a stack of hay bales.
“That won’t be so bad. I might even be good at archery.”
“Then go find out. Here, I’ll take the soup in.”
“Have a good time, um, spilling the tea with his mother.”
“Be sure I will.”
Breen split off at the gate. How bad could it be? she asked herself. She noted he had the sword set aside for her, so there’d be some of that. Which meant getting her ass kicked—not pleasant. But if he’d gone to the trouble of putting up a target, surely they’d spend most of the training there.
One hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he waited for her. She had the muscle for the weight of bow he’d chosen for her. He could hope she showed more talent there than with a sword.
It continued to baffle and frustrate him that a woman with her strength and her grace—for she had more than her share of both—would fumble so much with weapons.
She’d improved, he reminded himself as he dug out some patience. No question she’d improved. Though she’d never be a master or any sort of clever tactician with the blade, she’d hold her own.
Until someone cut off her arm.
And since it was up to him to see that never happened, Keegan felt entitled to some frustration.
To keep his mind focused on the task at hand, he told himself it hardly mattered her hair was brighter than the last fiery show of autumn leaves.
“As with the sword,” he said without preamble, “you aim the pointy end at the target.”