There she was again. The fisherman’s girl. Maker, if there was one reward for having to weed the Chantry garden every day — she was it.
He stopped digging for a moment and sat back on his heels, then raised a dusty hand against the sunlight glinting off the water.
She was standing in their beaten rowboat, peering down into the murk, as she always did on their way home, no matter how many times her father told her not to. Her wavy hair, even redder than Alistair’s, fell forward, revealing thin shoulders through her plain linen dress.
“Papa, where are all the turtles? Are they all right?” she said. “I don’t see any today.”
Alistair smiled and added “turtles” to his list. Blackbirds, cattail, milkweed…turtles.
“Maybe they were tired,” her father said, and pulled his hat lower over his eyes. “Tired and hot. Just like us.”
The boat was slipping away quickly now; the man’s grubby, sweat-stained tunic made up most of the view. But still she searched fervently, looking over one side, the other, then back again, until her father grabbed her arm and made her take her seat.
Oh, this is lovely, tg! Thank you, both for the drabble, and our related discussion. :D