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Thistle paused with a spoonful of chicken stew halfway to her mouth, then put the spoon back down. A curious look on her face, she turned to face the boy. The cane was nothing but a necessary nuisance, though sometimes helpful for emphasis, but even she did not have the heart to dampen the lad’s enthusiasm.
“We all resisted the ruffians in what ways we could, lad,” she said, her voice strangely soft. “They dragged my husband off to the lockholes, you see. He got sick there, never recovered.” Thistle wondered why she was telling him this. He was naught but a boy. “But yes, Masters Merry and Pippin were something else.” Could have used their help a lot sooner, though, she couldn’t help adding to herself.
“I’m sorry, Miz Bracegirdle,” said the lad. “About your husband and all.” Thistle was touched by his sincerity. It was probably the most sincere condolence she had ever received - behind her back, and once even to her face, Thistle knew they had said he was better off without her, even if it meant being dead.
“Don’t be,” she told him. “He was a brave sort, like I imagine you’d be, and he was getting old.”
The lad could not keep the comment from slipping out: “Like you, Miz Bracegirdle?” The shocked chides of “Willi!” from Ginger and the other, her sweetheart, no doubt, were in stark contrast to Thistle’s own reaction. She smiled for the first time in a long time, accenting the wrinkles of her aged face. “Yes, Willi, like me.” I like this one, decided Thistle. Too bad all the young’uns aren’t polite like him. He’s enthusiastic, but then that’s healthy in a lad, but not so rambunctious. Yes, I like this one.
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