“Dear Jad, what happened to you in the country?” his mother asked, in a voice so startled that both men laughed.

“Did you say no to that one?” Thierry asked his stepfather.

Ambroise Villar flushed again. “Not yet. I promised I’d consider it. I have until harvest rites to decide.”

“Not far off,” Thierry said.

And was shocked to hear his stepfather swear. A thing that never happened.

He laughed again. Then his mood changed, looking at the two of them. Something came to him, a thing he should have said and done long ago, he thought.

“I would like,” he said, “with your permission, to call you Father from now on. You are my father, you always have been. You have given me a life, in so many ways. I will honour Rochon Larraigne all my days, but…you’re my father. May I call you that?”

And was touched, and even shaken, to see the other man begin to cry. Then he realized he was doing the same, again, and his mother was.

Through her tears, Adelie said, again, “Dear Jad, what happened to you in the country?”

He could have tried to explain, but he didn’t.

—

Small things can matter so much in our lives, along with moments that aren’t so small.

It was still light when he went out. Summertime. He told his mother he’d come home to sleep.

The serjeants had stabled the three horses somewhere, probably back at the barracks, he thought. Two different men were outside now, waiting for him. They walked to The Lamb through busy evening streets. Someone was singing a ballad at the edge of a square. He stopped to listen for a bit. Another part of home.

He was smiling in anticipation, heard welcoming voices as he went through the doors of The Lamb.

And there was Silvy. By the bar, seeing him almost immediately. She walked straight over, full of fierce intent, and punched him, hard, on the shoulder.

Had to have hurt her hand, he thought. Which didn’t help him much. There was a bench behind him. He sank into it, rubbing at his shoulder. She didn’t shake her own hand, or rub it with the other. Or anything.

“So good to be welcomed back,” he managed. “Is there wine for a poet?”

“Fuck you, Thierry,” Silvy said.

Chapter XIV

Claquin Guiene, who had come to the city ignorant and awkward, and had been accepted into the guards of the Duke de Montereau, and had seen him murdered in the street last winter, was in The Lamb that evening.

He was a serjeant now. Had accepted an offer to join their ranks shortly after that terrible night. Seems someone had noticed and respected how he’d handled himself. That was the phrase the provost’s man had used when Claquin had attended at the Châtelet to receive this proposal.