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Dick was moving restlessly by his casks of ale, nervously running a cloth up and down them in the motions of cleaning. His mind was far away, though, trotting after the ponies bearing their riders to search for Cook. What had happened to her? Why had she gone missing? Did she leave by herself, or was she taken by force? If she'd left by herself, why didn't she let anyone know where she was going? Since she didn't let anyone know where she was going, she must've been taken by force! The questions and implications were too numerous for his head, and he had to stop thinking and just rub away at an old scar in the seasoned wood.
"Excuse me, master Innkeeper," said a voice behind him. Dick jumped and turned about. It was just Mithalwen. He smiled, a genuine, relieved smile, instead of his bright, cheerful, new-customer smile that he always had to smile.
"At your service, ma'am," Dick said, whisking the rag out of sight and placing his hands on the bar.
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