He's being unusually subdued, and Greta's brow is already furrowing in concern when he makes his excuse. "Oh." Oh, dear. She hopes he isn't coming down with anything - and not just because one of his chief household contributions is entertaining the little one, and woe betide the rest of them if Jack's not up to the task.
"Well, you can have a lie down when we get back," she says, resisting the urge to check for a fever right there on the street. That, she suspects, really would be too much as far the lad's dignity is concerned.
At least it's not a long walk back to their shop. Greta keeps half an eye on her son, who is the very picture of exaggerated dejection as he maintains his half-block lead, and half an eye on Jack. A few friends call out to her, and she does spare a smile and a wave for a woman in a green headscarf engaged in animated conversation with the smith. Then her son is dragging his feet into the shop, fully rebuilt after the Giant's rampage, with the addition of a small barn for Milky White (who, since her reanimation, doesn't show the least inclination towards dying again).
The lot next door spent a year or two in conspicuous, stubborn neglect before the Girl decided someone ought to do something with it, and that she wasn't afraid, and it has since become a stolidly normal vegetable garden. The Girl's working there, now, and Greta's son soon appears out the side door, flings himself onto her back, and proclaims, "Jack's boring today."
Best leave them to it. Greta steers Jack into the cool, sweet-smelling interior. "How are you feeling?" she asks, checking for fever or any obvious signs of ill health now that they're out of public view. "Could you eat something?"
no subject
"Well, you can have a lie down when we get back," she says, resisting the urge to check for a fever right there on the street. That, she suspects, really would be too much as far the lad's dignity is concerned.
At least it's not a long walk back to their shop. Greta keeps half an eye on her son, who is the very picture of exaggerated dejection as he maintains his half-block lead, and half an eye on Jack. A few friends call out to her, and she does spare a smile and a wave for a woman in a green headscarf engaged in animated conversation with the smith. Then her son is dragging his feet into the shop, fully rebuilt after the Giant's rampage, with the addition of a small barn for Milky White (who, since her reanimation, doesn't show the least inclination towards dying again).
The lot next door spent a year or two in conspicuous, stubborn neglect before the Girl decided someone ought to do something with it, and that she wasn't afraid, and it has since become a stolidly normal vegetable garden. The Girl's working there, now, and Greta's son soon appears out the side door, flings himself onto her back, and proclaims, "Jack's boring today."
Best leave them to it. Greta steers Jack into the cool, sweet-smelling interior. "How are you feeling?" she asks, checking for fever or any obvious signs of ill health now that they're out of public view. "Could you eat something?"