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Will studied his toes and the worn wooden floor of the inn; studied them in a most painstaking manner. Pretending, he hoped, that it was perhaps some other ‘Will’ whom old Granny had pegged for this new task. He sighed quietly in the extending silence, then looked up grudgingly at that small excuse for a proper breakfast she’d shoved into his hand.
‘Right, then,’ he mumbled, stuffing the sandwich halfway into his mouth as he reached out to make another one. This second he wrapped in a napkin and stowed it away in his vest pocket.
‘Be off, then,’ he grumbled, taking the first sandwich from out his mouth and securing the flask Rowan now offered him in another pocket. As he turned to make his way to the door, the shiriff called out after him.
‘Might try Miz Gardenia Boffin’s place, up The Yale. She’s not got many neighbors close by, you know, and loves to have old Hugh in for a chin wag. He’s known to time his route to just about elevenses to her place. And he swears his feet hardly touch the ground as he’s drawn up by the aroma of fresh seedcake and hot sweetspice tea on the way to her door.’
His provender secured, Will made his way to the stable and fetched out Thistle, one of the inn’s quicker and more amenable ponies. Soon they were on their way west in search of the postman.
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