When the sun's at its zenith, dim through the overcast spring sky, Chance is in the meadow with her new bow and arrows.
"They're beautiful," she tells Robin again, when she sees him. "Truly. How are you, anyway?" she adds. She's not his friend just for the free weaponry.
Robin smiled at her approach, truly glad to see her. He held out a new-blown snowdrop. "I am glad you like them, Chance," he said simply, hoping she would notice that he was trying to abide by her wishes in the use of her name. "I took much pleasure in making them for you, and will find more in watching you use them," His dark green eyes were soft with affection.
"I am well, though..." His expression changed, pain now reflected in the depths of those same eyes. "I would have your advice, my friend. You were right, and I am troubled, for I do not now know what to do."
"Only that I feel a fool," muttered Robin, fingers in his hair. "There is a lady - I thought, I hoped that she wanted to know me. But it is only the legend she knows. Or wants. And I have agreed to meet her friends, to have a dinner with her - and now - " He spread his hands wide. "I do not know what to do. I will surely disappoint them all, for I am not what she thinks. I tried to tell her, but she will not hear. She insists I am more than a man - I cannot be so, and so I told her, but..."
He looked at Chance, his face that of a man haunted by his own legend. "I know she means to compliment me, to be kind. You thought this might happen, so tell me, I beg you - what more may I do? I have no wish to give offense, but my interest in the lady is not what it was." And I am hurt, he thought, but did not say. She would know.
If Robin weren't so palpably hurt by the whole thing, Chance would be strongly tempted to laugh at this mystery woman's expense. Now, how's Chance going to explain romance novels to someone who lived in a very religious society before the advent of the printing press
( ... )
He chuckled dryly. "I am not so naive as you think, Chance. There were village girls..." Robin promptly contradicted his assertion by blushing fiercely. "What I mean is, I was aware of the lady's interest." He rubbed the back of his neck.
Chance is undaunted. "Yeah, village girls. Who were your contemporaries." Who didn't have Harlequin-cover visions dancing in their heads. "I have no illusions that the Middle Ages didn't have its equivalent of one-night stands. That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that the legend is going to be a turn-on for people like this woman you're talking about -- and that was who, exactly? I don't think you mentioned a name." She doesn't necessarily plan to give the poor woman a talking-to. She'd just like to know at whom she should be snickering behind her hand next time there's a Sorting or other major gathering.
"And yes. You can quit anytime you want. Look at Simon's brother-in-law. He's some kind of nineteenth-century ship's surgeon and he goes wandering around in school robes. Or in a grubby old sweatshirt and jeans. And by the time people actually start talking to him and find out where he's really from, they've already developed their first impressions."
Robin looked at her. "You will not - no, of course you will not. She is the lady Toshiko Sato." He gave her another look, but did not say anything else. This was Chance - he trusted her. Mostly.
He looked down at himself. "So it is my style of dress? What shall I change to? I do not think I will be comfortable in robes, and I could not shoot well in them either."
"I won't say anything," Chance assures him. "It'd be just plain awkward. Anyway I'm not in the business of rubbing people's noses in their gaucherie. Much."
She considers his attire. "I'm not much of a fashion consultant, I expect. Just something modern." She grins. "Your modern-day woodsman generally goes for flannel shirts."
"They're beautiful," she tells Robin again, when she sees him. "Truly. How are you, anyway?" she adds. She's not his friend just for the free weaponry.
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"I am well, though..." His expression changed, pain now reflected in the depths of those same eyes. "I would have your advice, my friend. You were right, and I am troubled, for I do not now know what to do."
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He looked at Chance, his face that of a man haunted by his own legend. "I know she means to compliment me, to be kind. You thought this might happen, so tell me, I beg you - what more may I do? I have no wish to give offense, but my interest in the lady is not what it was." And I am hurt, he thought, but did not say. She would know.
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Quit? "How?"
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"And yes. You can quit anytime you want. Look at Simon's brother-in-law. He's some kind of nineteenth-century ship's surgeon and he goes wandering around in school robes. Or in a grubby old sweatshirt and jeans. And by the time people actually start talking to him and find out where he's really from, they've already developed their first impressions."
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He looked down at himself. "So it is my style of dress? What shall I change to? I do not think I will be comfortable in robes, and I could not shoot well in them either."
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She considers his attire. "I'm not much of a fashion consultant, I expect. Just something modern." She grins. "Your modern-day woodsman generally goes for flannel shirts."
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