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Scyld watched a moment as Rowenna hurried off before turning his attention back to his pouch. He’d gotten the worst of the mud off; the rest could wait until later when he had something better to clean it than his wet cloak. He set the pouch aside, then took off his cloak and hung it up to dry nearby. He felt a bit foolish then standing there with naught to but guard the mud puddle, but it also gave him a few moments to collect himself before Rowenna came back from the kitchen.
She returned soon enough, laden down with a broom, bucket, and rags: a somewhat unwieldy combination, but she managed well. It occurred to him that he never seemed to see her at ease: she always seemed burdened down, or to have taken on some particularly difficult or unpleasant task. He’d not paid much attention to it once, but now having spent much time with his sisters and his brothers’ wives, it struck him as odd. His sisters, though hard working, were forever asking each other or the older children for help, not because they were unable to do without it but because (he supposed) they valued the companionship and sought to ease everyone’s burden by sharing the work around (though he was unconvinced of the efficiency of this way of thinking). Rowenna seemed to act far more independently, almost as if she felt she had something to prove.
He did not have long to think on it as she walked up and handed him the broom. He was a little surprised but did not mind, and he set to sweeping out the muck. He changed his mind about letting go of her ire and decided to try again. “So did you learn what you wished to know this morning?” he asked dryly.
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