“There, now it will rise as I milk Bessie, and we may have milksops for breakfast,” I grumbled.
Genevieve shook her head and gestured that she would milk Bessie, and that I was to go to the water for a swim.
“Nay, Genevieve, I know I am quite the shrew this morning, but I will be more pleasant. I would not have you do my share simply because you could not stand my company.”
She insisted, with a gesture that implied, if I read it correctly, concern for Bessie’s welfare if I were to tackle her poor udders in such a mood.
I chuckled ruefully, and acquiesced—only to pause in the doorway and turn back. “Genevieve?”
She looked up, alert, patient, my companion of near three years, of whom I knew nothing more than I had the day she washed ashore, save that she was gentle, intelligent, kind, a
