I nearly spilled my wine. “And what did you hear?”
“Only what we expected,” he said comfortingly. “Of the Prince and his mother, not a word. Nor any gossip about you. An interesting rumor that Civil Bresinga broke off his engagement to Sydel Grayling because there is supposed to be Wit in her family. A Witted silversmith and his six children and wife were driven out of Buckkeep Town last week; Lady Esomal is quite annoyed, for she had just ordered two rings from him. Oh. And Lady Patience has on her estate three Witted goosegirls and she doesn’t care who knows it. Someone accused one of them of putting a spell on his hawks, and Lady Patience told him that not only did the Wit not work that way, but that if he didn’t stop setting his hawks on the turtledoves in her garden, she’d have him horsewhipped, and she didn’t care whose cousin he was.”
“Ah. Patience is as discreet and rational as ever,” I said, smiling, and the Fool nodded. I shook my head more soberly as I added, “If the tide of feeling rises much higher against the Witted ones, Patience may find she has put herself in danger by taking their part. Sometimes I wish her caution was as great as her courage.”
“You miss her, don’t you?” he asked softly.
I took a breath. “Yes. I do.” Even admitting it squeezed my heart. It was more than missing her. I’d abandoned her. Tonight I’d seen her, a fading old woman alone save for her loyal, aging servants.
“But you’ve never considered letting her know that you survived? That you live still?”
I shook my head. “For the reasons I just mentioned. She has no caution. Not only would she proclaim it from the rooftops, but also she would probably threaten to horsewhip anyone who refused to rejoice with her. That would be after she got over being furious with me, of course.”
“Of course.”
We were both smiling, in that bittersweet way one does when imagining something that the heart longs for and the head would dread. The fire burned before us, tongues of flame lapping up the side of the fresh log. Outside the shuttered windows, a wind was blowing. Winter’s herald. A twitch of old reflexes made me think of all the things I had not done to prepare for it. I’d left crops in my garden, and harvested no marsh grass for the pony’s winter comfort. They were the cares of another man in another life. Here at Buckkeep, I need worry about none of that. I should have felt smug, but instead I felt divested.
“Do you think the Prince will meet me at dawn in Verity’s tower?”