~*~
Trixie found Nash sitting in the common room of the inn when she came down for breakfast the next morning. The sun still climbed toward dominance of the new day, and most of the tables remained empty. She fully expected to have to wait for her new tutor because of his age and now experienced a pang of guilt for doing so. He said he would be there, and being old did not necessarily mean he would forget or sleep in late. An inner voice tried to tell her it made it more likely, but she told it to shut up because she liked Nash and really hoped he could help her learn to read.
Her three former bodyguards sat at a different table, finishing their breakfasts. She waved at Nash, and he smiled and waved back. She walked over to talk with Reeve and the other two Westgrovians. After a brief conversation, she left them to join the old storyteller.
“Those were my traveling companions on my trip here,” she explained, nodding toward the three men. “I just needed to tell them I wouldn’t be going with them on the way back.”
“I hope my joining you isn’t an inconvenience.”
“No. They know the way back by themselves, and I’m in no real hurry. My assignment is completed. I don’t have to be back right away.”
She thought she might be making another unfair assumption, but he did not look like he could travel as fast as she normally did.
“That must have been some important assignment to warrant three escorts.”
“I suppose so. I don’t really know, of course, and I can’t talk about it anyway.”
“Of course not. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“That’s all right. Have you eaten yet?”
“I’m fine. Why don’t you get yourself something?”
She did. A breakfast buffet like the one at the Redfruit Inn in Barter’s Forge did not exist here. Instead, a pair of stoutfolk men made food to order at low bar—low for her but not for the locals. Both chefs wore aprons and a pair of hairnets—one for their heads and one for their beards.
She ordered porridge and jam, a local breakfast specialty, mainly because it would be quick but also because many Gotroxians chose it for their morning meal. She liked sampling the traditional fare at different places. She considered it a side benefit of her line of work.
When she got her bowl, she noticed the cook had drawn a smiley face on the porridge with the jam, a traditional wish for a nice day. She smiled at it and then back at the cook who gave her a wink and a smile of his own.
She returned to the table. “Do you have everything you need?”
“I’m ready to go when you are,” Nash said cheerfully. “Here, I brought this.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a small, thin book with a colorful cover. “I’ve had this for several years. I keep it for sentimental reasons, I suppose. Books like this have been used to teach children on this pl—, I mean, in Westgrove for generations. Like me, it’s pretty old, but I think we both have a few more years of service in us.”
Trixie took it from his hand and inspected the cover, noticing its faded colors and worn edges. It showed a picture of a rabbit—no, you could not call something this cute a rabbit. Rabbits went in stew pots, not storybooks. It was a bunny, dressed in a felt hat and a checkered shirt but, oddly, without any pants. It stood on its hind legs peeking over some tall grass presumably at something out of the picture. Multicolored letters in a washed out rainbow arc stretched across the top of the cover. Trixie did not know what they said.
Nash enlightened her. “It’s called Run Bunny Run.”
“What’s it about?” she asked, flipping through the pages. A few words appeared in large print underneath a colorful picture on each.
“It’s about a young bunny out on his own for the first time learning about the world.”
“I’d feel a bit silly reading a book like this. I’m not a little girl anymore.”
He replied with his customary good humor. “Well, I promise not to tell anyone if you don’t. Besides, I read it over now and then myself, and I’m much older than you are. You never outgrow a good story. I should know.”
She smiled back at him. He seemed so—paternal. She did not know her own father well. She seldom saw him when she was a little girl, and when she got older, she never saw him at all. She did not know what became of him and long since stopped caring very much. She lacked a model for what a good father would be, but she expected Nash might be a fine example. She felt sure she would have been very happy if he had been hers.
“Thank you, Nash. This is very kind of you.”
“Call me Grandpa Nash. I think that would work better.”
“All right, Grandpa Nash.” She smiled.
She felt secure and cared for when in his company. She found it extremely unfamiliar but comforting nonetheless. If he were a few pounds lighter and a few decades younger, she could really go for a guy like that.