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Cat walked. He was starting to appreciate what Rodin saw in it—the repetition of movement with minor variations, the slowly unfolding surroundings, the sense of active peace, and the solitude. But most of all Cat appreciated the solitude.
This was just as well, because he had a long walk ahead of him. And when he arrived, there would be more walking.
He’d taken a break a couple of hours ago, at one of the many quiet villages around here. There had been a tavern, but a voice had called out to tell him that Barnath was down with a fever, and he’d be damned if he’d let anyone else open up. But the woman who spoke invited Cat into her own home—only the front room, mind, and only on the chair by the door—and had provided a drink and food.
It wasn’t anything special, compare
