In Which Haldred Readies His Blessing

October 26, 1185

"Cherry!" After answering the door, Haldred had retreated just far enough into the house that his next-door neighbor would feel obliged to follow. Maybe that was a little over-eager, and Cherry was a smart lady, so probably transparent too. But the only times she'd ever popped in, his father hadn't been home.

Until now.

"You seem pretty excitable today. Don't tell me some kid at school gave you any funny herbs."

"Oh, no. It's just a good day." It wasn't a lie. How many times had he caught his father smiling nervously whenever he met Cherry's eye through their respective windows? Still glancing well after her back was turned, only to jump back to reality whenever Haldred prodded? That was probably why his father had nailed shut the curtains in the upstairs bathroom--it looked right into Cherry's upstairs bathroom--though Haldred liked to think his father was better than that anyway.

He was, definitely, more awkward than that. For that, he needed Haldred's help.

"Anyway, what brings you to my humble abode?"

"'Humble abode'? Well, I guess it makes sense that the best poetry can't be taught in schools." A laugh rolled in the undertones of her voice, as it often did. Whatever she'd meant, at least she thought it was funny. "But I actually just need to borrow some salt."

"Oh." Then she was probably cooking. That meant she'd have to leave right away. Perhaps he could call his father down now? No, that would have been too obvious. Whether he'd thank him later or not, his father would find subtlety embarrassing enough. "Uh... sure. Are you making dinner?"

"A little early for that, don't you think?" Cherry smirked. Haldred wasn't sure what that meant either, but he'd content himself with the knowledge that she had nothing on the stove at home. "I actually use it in some of my paintings."

Heh? That hadn't come up in art class. "Salt? Paintings?"

"Yes, it has some interesting effects with certain kinds of pigments, or if you use a lot of water. Does wonders for texture too."

"Huh. I wonder if my father's heard that. He used to paint a little, though never as well as you." It may have been wishful thinking, but he thought he caught a spark of interest in her grin. Imagined or not, he'd go with it. Haldred would be eleven in December, and his mother had been dead all his life. For all he knew, Cherry would have no interest in his father as more than a friend, but that was fine. Maybe the outcome here was almost a detail. He often wondered if his father had refrained from remarrying for his own sake; if that was the case, then he owed his father some sort of blessing. He wanted his father to move on.

And crazy as it was since he'd never known her, he was damn sure his mother wanted the same thing.

"Really? There aren't many masters of arms who paint. Your father is a rare breed of man."

"The rarest," Haldred agreed. "Actually, I was just going to put on a pot of tea for me and him. Would you like to join us?"

"I suppose it couldn't hurt." Hopefully his father would see things the same way. "Just give me a minute to run home for some biscuits. I hope you and your father like cinnamon."

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