Welcome to my #WIP Wednesday.
If I’m slow to share your comments, don’t fret. I’m currently residing in the land of medical… stuff. I’ll be back in a week or three so comment way. I’ll reply as soon as I’m able.
I’m picking up where I left off last week.
In case you’re playing catch up…
Here’s my #WIPpet math for 4/17/2019 I’m snagging the seven for seven paragraphs from… I’ll think of a title someday soon, I promise.
Note: The first line comes from last week’s WIPpet, and Conall is speaking.
“Whatever you said, it involves me and food.”
“I said you appreciate my cooking.” I center my tricorn on my head. It’s larger than I need, but it’d been the right price when I’d obtained it… free. I don’t care who lost it, it’s a fine hat indeed, better than Conall’s truth be known.
“It’s like you stayed by your mother’s side long enough to learn.”
“I’ve heard the great cooks in Europe, the ones who cook for the king himself, are men. And my father was a baker for a while.”
“Baker, blacksmith. Seems he was a lot of things. And we’re not in Europe suffering under the monarchs. We’re here and free.” He slows even more. “We’re Patriots, not Tories, so we don’t live in a palace or have the finery, but you’re good at cooking, however you came to learn it.”
“Thank you.” I hold myself taller as the Alcott’s cabin comes into view. “Are you certain I can’t eat in the kitchen?”
“You’re nearing nineteen, so it’s high time you behave like a man.” He turns to face me. “Was your father this short?”
“Almost.” He’s asked this at least a dozen times over the years. I haven’t grown but a speck since we met, and he’s always watching out for me. “My Mother was even more so.” Conall’s being kind by expressing such concern, but I’m as tall as I’m ever going to be, and we both know it.
I have the impression that Nub is insecure about a lot of things. His size, his relationship with Conall… Nub’s got definite issues, but don’t we all?