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‘Don’t you?’
The little girl’s question invited an affirmative answer. But he thought perhaps he should first acquaint himself with Taffy and Seren’s parents. Miz Sandybanks had the very same look on her face he remembered his mother had when he and his brothers had overstepped her sense of proper social interaction.
Skirvir stepped a little closer to the family, nodding his head to Lily first and then to Madoc. ‘Let me introduce myself, goodmaster and goodmistress. Skirvir, I am; son of Skjald; from the Lonely Mountain, east of the Misty Mountains. My cousins and I,’ he went on, pointing to where Bívor and Bávor sat, ‘are traveling westward to the Blue Mountains, seeking some family of ours who are said to still live there.’
He pointed at Taffy, then, smiling. ‘I saw your son sitting on the step of the inn, carving some little beastie from wood. We struck up a small conversation. I’m also a carver, though my materials are gems. Your son has a steady hand and a good eye for detail for one so young, if I may say so. Anyway, to make a long story short, I did indeed promise a story to him, about the creature he was carving.’ Skirvir grinned at Seren who continued to look at him expectantly.
‘And of course, by extension, I would be more than happy to share the story with Seren. That is . . . if this is agreeable to you both.’
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