[Arry]

Ferdy hurried across the yard from the cottage to the Inn’s stable. He’d gone back to the worksite to make sure the tools were out of the rain. Most of them had been secured just inside the front door, but a few of the larger ones had been left out. Those he’d piled on the cottage’s porch, snug against the wall, and covered them with a small tarp. Dashing through the sprinkles of rain, he regretted leaving his cloak in the common room. The already cold wind seemed chillier as it blew against his damp shirt.

He paused at the back door into the kitchen. On its little porch was a stiff, bristly mat, placed their by Cook for the wiping of feet. Ferdy dutifully scraped the mud from each of his then opened the door and stepped into the warmth of the kitchen.

Cook eyed him as he stood near the entrance, the door still ajar, blinking in the light. ‘Close the door, lad!’ came the firm words of Cook. ‘And come over by the fire before you catch your death of cold.’ He took the towel she handed him and dried his hair with it. Then held out his arms, turning this way and that to dry his shirt. Cook clucked at him, and fetched a spare tunic she’d just finished darning earlier in the day for the stableboy. ‘Here, now,’ she chided him, motioning for him to take off the wet shirt and put on the new. ‘Hang that on one of the pegs near the fire to dry. You can pick it up when you leave,’ she instructed him.

Ferdy looked around the kitchen, hoping for a glimpse of Ginger. ‘Not here,’ Cook chuckled at his disappointment. ‘Back in a minute, though. Sent her out to help with the serving.’ She looked him up and down, her lips pursing to one side in a thoughtful manner. ‘Come to speak with her, I take it,’ she went on. He mumbled a ‘yes’, his cheeks turning red. ‘Naught to be shy of, lad,’ she said. ‘Mind you might want to get the shirt tucked in. And your hair . . .’ She mimicked a smoothing motion at him. The brass bottomed skillet that hung near on the wall gave a fair view of himself. He tucked the tunic in neatly, then ran his fingers through his mop of curls, pushing them into some semblance of order.

He looked round to find Buttercup grinning at him. She had a pitcher of cold cider in hand which she now passed to him. ‘She’ll be done much quicker with her supper duties if you lend a hand, Master Ferdy!’ She winked at him and gave him a push out through the door to the common room.