Lostwithiel. A sudden foreboding strikes you then, doesn't it, Constance? That somehow, this humble and good man (or so you must assume) will be drawn into the coming disaster if he goes there with his master of a mule. Nonsense, surely! You don't even know if he is headed for Lostwithiel, much less if he intends to stay there long. Yet it is impossible, once you take up that thought, to put it down again. So you look at him, intent eyes like still forest pools, your inner turmoil carefully hidden beneath your noble mien.

"The prayers are said, the fair complete, and we'll see what this year brings," you say, carefully. "And as for yourself, good man, how turns the Wheel of the seasons?"

It is your right to be recognized as a keeper of the Old Faith, after all, daughter of giants; and who would fail to recognize you? Who would fail to offer an account of their days, or then surrender some small thing or prayer or question that troubles them, some small and wonderful matter between the two of you, a burden to be lifted from them. So let us wait for an answer, and do your best not to get distracted by that mule still reaching for the carrot. (Will he get it? He must-- certainly he will-- won't he?)