Storms hit that summer, one after the other, clouds piling up the Iberian peninsula like folded blankets, shrouding the world in a blanket of rain and mud.
Mud.
Hell to wheels and wagons, hell to horses’ hooves, hell to poor travelers who were on their way back home. Summer passed, with no sign of Romano.
Fall rolled in, a tomato harvest, some blighted with rot due to summer rains but others thriving on the extra irrigation. No sign of Romano.
All Saint’s Day, and now that winter was approaching there would be few travelers at all, trying to cross into Spain. If Romano was out of Andorra, perhaps he would be back in time for Christmas. If not, he would not be able to return until spring or summer.
Antonio’s head hurt.
The first week of December, and Antonio stood outside on the parapets of his castle and breathed. Too much indoor work, too many meetings, not enough time out in the cold, biting air.
And then he saw it. A line across the horizon, kicking up cold dust on the undulating road to the castle and they’d be there by evening, they’d be here by evening - it was Romano. Antonio knew without a doubt that Romano was back.
The day was a flurry of activity, a mad dash to make sure the castle was cleaned, a proper dinner was prepared, bathwater warmed - dios, Antonio just needed something to do, or else he’d be up on the parapet, watching the train of wagons and horses and men swirl closer and closer as the day wore on.
The sun began to dance lower, rubbing gently against the horizon, and the already-chill air turned frighteningly frozen. The caravan was close, now, weaving through the city around the castle. Torches were lit as the caravan crawled the last stretch of road.
One of the menservants tripped up to the parapet, a heavy cloak in his hands. “Senor,” he said softly. “They have arrived.”
Storms hit that summer, one after the other, clouds piling up the Iberian peninsula like folded blankets, shrouding the world in a blanket of rain and mud.
Mud.
Hell to wheels and wagons, hell to horses’ hooves, hell to poor travelers who were on their way back home. Summer passed, with no sign of Romano.
Fall rolled in, a tomato harvest, some blighted with rot due to summer rains but others thriving on the extra irrigation. No sign of Romano.
All Saint’s Day, and now that winter was approaching there would be few travelers at all, trying to cross into Spain. If Romano was out of Andorra, perhaps he would be back in time for Christmas. If not, he would not be able to return until spring or summer.
Antonio’s head hurt.
The first week of December, and Antonio stood outside on the parapets of his castle and breathed. Too much indoor work, too many meetings, not enough time out in the cold, biting air.
And then he saw it. A line across the horizon, kicking up cold dust on the undulating road to the castle and they’d be there by evening, they’d be here by evening - it was Romano. Antonio knew without a doubt that Romano was back.
The day was a flurry of activity, a mad dash to make sure the castle was cleaned, a proper dinner was prepared, bathwater warmed - dios, Antonio just needed something to do, or else he’d be up on the parapet, watching the train of wagons and horses and men swirl closer and closer as the day wore on.
The sun began to dance lower, rubbing gently against the horizon, and the already-chill air turned frighteningly frozen. The caravan was close, now, weaving through the city around the castle. Torches were lit as the caravan crawled the last stretch of road.
One of the menservants tripped up to the parapet, a heavy cloak in his hands. “Senor,” he said softly. “They have arrived.”
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