The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

One Week - Day 7

"I had wanted you to be able to wear a jacket under it," Lark grumbled and came around to pick at the front of the coat.

"I'm sure the thinner ones will fit," Able soothed and shrugged a bit to see if the coat would slide. It continued to sit where it was. "I'm no expert, but I think the fit's just about perfect."

"Yeah?" the brown eyes raised from where Lark had been buttoning the coat. Able cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"It is also surprisingly tasteful and low-profile."

"Sur—hey," Lark growled, but to suppress a laugh. "Low-profile is not what's called for in a 'landlady.'"

"I think you are one flower-besotted hat beyond your standard landlady," Able chuckled.

"This hat is everything," Lark huffed.

"It certainly has everything."

"Okay, it might be a bit much-y," Lark allowed, "but, it's a parasol day, see, but have you ever tried riding with a parasol?"

"Of course not."

"Of course not, that would be stupid," his emphasis was such that Able refrained from chuckling. "So the hat was the next best thing. And it does the job," he added, touching the brim, "picking up the breezes just so..." Lark trailed off and looked at Able a moment longer while inhaling, then looked away and deflated.

Able had no idea what he was on about, but he definitely recognized the feeling of trying to talk about something important with someone who neither understood nor cared to. And actually, now that the breeze ruffled his hair as it carried along the scent of alyssum from the half-completed gardens, maybe he did have an inkling as to what Lark was on about. He reached for his—no her elbow and, cupping it gently, asked:

"Would you care to walk the grounds?" And then, knowing this was intensely stupid yet sensing it might help, he offered her his arm. Lark had looked at his face in surprise when he first touched her arm, and now was looking at his arm with that same surprise.

"Yes," she said after a second's hesitation. "Yes, I would." She slid her arm into his.

They walked. Lark didn't know where to put her hand at first, so Able took it upon himself to guide it to his bicep, and even then she couldn't decide how tightly she was supposed to be gripping. At the same time, Able found himself relaxing. He knew how to escort a lady—had learned all manners of etiquette in his time in the Circle of Knowledge. Furthermore, he liked etiquette, even when the rules were undoubtedly silly, they were still a chart on hand to help him navigate the seas of humanity. Perhaps he was unwieldy with them, but it seemed to him a shield you had half a grip on was better than no shield at all.

"Say, was Steadfast Buckler from Kettlebrook?" Able felt this a safe conversation topic while enforcers were still in earshot.

"Yes," she nodded. "Furniture maker, mostly, but he also made the fastest toboggans."

"...what's that?"

"Haha, a sled without runners, silly. Are you about to ask me what a sled is too?"

"No," Able huffed. "It's a transport for over snow."

"Very good!" Lark laughed. "He'd make these little ones that were ostensibly meant to haul your gear after you so you didn't sink into the snow from carrying it on your back, but truly, the best use for them is riding downhill and trying to be faster than the other kids without smashing into a tree."

"Since you've thankfully avoided breaking your neck, you'll be invaluable to me if you'd check my notes from the camp."

"Sure, I can do that," she nodded, tapped Able's hand, then pulled away. He let his hand fall then turned to face her.