“Your own?”
“Those wherein I have occasionally wandered.”
“Find you many such songs there?”
“Now and again. They are, however, often elusive, escaping as soon as perceived.”
Isabel turned from the fire, looked full at him. She gave him now a smile, rare with her, though Peregrine was not to know that. His heart beat hotly.
“Methinks,” she said, “you are poet rather than Jester.”
The colour rushed to Peregrine’s face. Memory of his resolution surged towards him, yet was it driven back by the smile that trembled on her lips.
“Madam, I—” he stammered.
Isabel misunderstood the hesitation. She had seen his sire wince with the new jest ready on his tongue. Here was no jest ready, and strangely enough she would cloak the deficiency.
“I—I am not displeased.” The words fell softly from her lips.