George shook his son’s hand with a bit more vigor than seemed necessary.
“If you bothered to read your mail, I wouldn’t have had to come. Shall we sit?”
There he goes, telling me what to do in my own house. Edward pulled a chair from beside a small table and rested his arms on the back of it. George sat down again on the bench.
“The fire’s died down a bit,” George said.
“My home isn’t a tavern. Since I didn’t read your notes, tell me why you’re here.”
George pulled his eyebrows together.
“I’m curious. Why did you save the notes?”
“I thought they’d make good kindling.”
Mary walked up with mugs of small beer.
“Shall I lay another place for dinner?”
“No. My father won’t be staying.”
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