Kessa and her sister (and whoever watched over them, no doubt) had left before he'd woken. Once a solitary mystery, the herb-witch was now an enigma with companions. If she doesn't like me, why would she let her sister proposition me? And why come on patrol a second time? Iathor forbore to groan lest it worry Jeck, beside him. After they'd dropped off everyone else, Iathor resisted the temptation to go offer Kessa breakfast. It would've been unfair to his dramsmen to delay their meals. As they arrived home, a messenger on horseback was leaving the front door, Earl Irilye's sigil on his coat . . . Iathor slouched, calculating months. "Harvest celebrations? Already?" Jeck guided the horses around the curve to the back of the house, holding them back lest they dash recklessly for their stable. "Like as not, m'lord. Shall I get the boys and Dayn to help with the carriage polishing, or will you be indisposed this year?" "I'd best go. Iasen will, and someone should be the responsible brother." There'd undoubtedly be less than a fiveday till the fete; those who cared about fashion had commissioned clothes long ago, and everyone else (such as Iathor) had conservative outfits from prior years.
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